ST.ACK 
ANUEX 

BL 

1900 
L3Z7BE 
1921B 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


Tlbe  Wisfcom  of  tbe  Bast  Series 

EDITED  BY 

L.  CRANMER-BYNG 

Dr.  S.  A.  KAPADIA 


THE    RHYTHM    OF    LIFE 


WISDOM   OF   THE  EAST 


THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

BASED    ON    THE   PHILOSOPHY 
OF   LAO-TSE 

TRANSLATED    BY   M.   E.   REYNOLDS 


FROM  THE  DUTCH 

OF 

HENRI    BOREL 


NEW   YORK 

E.   P.   BUTTON   AND   COMPANY 
1921 


Stack 
Annex 


PREFACE 

THE  following  study  on  Lao-Tee's  "  Wu-Wei  " 
should  not  be  regarded  as  a  translation  or  even 
as  a  free  rendering  of  the  actual  work  of  that 
philosopher.  I  have  simply  tried  to  retain  in  my 
work  the  pure  essence  of  his  thought,  and  only 
in  isolated  instances  have  I  given  a  literal  trans- 
lation even  of  his  essential  truths,  the  rest  being 
for  the  most  part  a  self-evolved  elaboration  of  the 
few  principles  expressed  by  him. 

My  reading  of  the  terms  "  Tao  "  and  "  Wu- 
Wei  "  is  entirely  different  from  that  of  most 
sinologues  (such  as  Stanislas  Julien,  Giles,  and 
Legge),  who  have  translated  the  work  "  Tao-  Teh- 
King."  But  this  is  not  the  place  to  justify 
myself.  It  may  best  be  judged  from  the  following 
work  whether  my  conception  be  reasonable  or 
incorrect. 

Little  is  contained  in  Lao-Tse's  short,  extremely 
simple  book,  the  words  of  which  may  be  said 

9 

2042135 


10  PREFACE 

to  be  condensed  into  their  purely  primary  signi- 
ficance— (a  significance  at  times  quite  at  variance 
with  that  given  in  other  works  to  the  same  words  *) 
—but  this  little  is  gospel.  Lao-Tse's  work  is  no 
treatise  on  philosophy,  but  contains  merely 
those  essential  truths  to  which  his  unwritten 
philosophy  had  led  him.  In  it  we  find  no  forms 
nor  theories,  nothing  but  the  quintessence  of  this 
philosophy. 

My  work  is  permeated  with  this  essence,  but 
it  is  no  translation  of  Lao-Tse.  None  of  my 
metaphorical  comparisons,  such  as  that  with  the 
landscape,  the  sea,  or  the  clouds,  are  anywhere 
to  be  found  in  Lao-Tse's  work.  Neither  has  he 
anywhere  spoken  of  Art,  nor  specially  of  Love. 
In  writing  of  all  this  I  have  spoken  aloud  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  instinctively  induced  by  the 
perusal  of  Lao-Tse's  deep-felt  philosophy.  Thus 
it  may  be  that  my  work  contains  far  more  of 
myself  than  I  am  conscious  of  ;  but  even  so,  it  is 
but  an  outpouring  of  the  thought  and  feeling 
called  up  in  me  by  the  words  of  Lao-Tse. 

I  have  made  use  of  none  but  Chinese  works  on 
Lao-Tse,  and  of  those  only  a  few.  On  reading 
later  some  of  the  English  and  French  translations, 

*  By  Confucius,  for  instance. 


PREFACE  11 

I  was  amazed  to  find  how  confused  and  unintelli- 
gible these  books  were. 

I  adhered  to  my  simple  idea  of  Lao-Tse's  work, 
and  of  my  own  work  I  could  alter  nothing,  for  I 
felt  the  truth  of  it  within  me  as  a  simple,  natural 
faith. 

HENRI  BOREL. 


NOTE 

THIS  little  book  was  first  published  some  years  ago 
by  Messrs.  Luzac,  under  the  title  of  "  Wu-Wei," 
and  has  been  long  out  of  print.  The  present 
version  has  been  largely  rewritten  in  a  simpler 
style  and  subjected  to  much  careful  revision  by 
the  translator. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

nm 

TAO  .         .         .         .17 


CHAPTER  II 
ART 43 

CHAPTER  III 
LOVE 65 

NOTBS  84 


13 


EDITORIAL   NOTE 

THE  object  of  the  Editors  of  this  series  is  a  very 
definite  one.  They  desire  above  all  things  that, 
in  their  humble  way,  these  books  shall  be  the 
ambassadors  of  good-will  and  understanding 
between  East  and  West — the  old  world  of  Thought 
and  the  new  of  Action.  In  this  endeavour,  and 
in  their  own  sphere,  they  are  but  followers  of  the 
highest  example  in  the  land.  They  are  confident 
that  a  deeper  knowledge  of  the  great  ideals  and 
lofty  philosophy  of  Oriental  thought  may  help 
to  a  revival  of  that  true  spirit  of  Charity  which 
neither  despises  nor  fears  the  nations  of  another 
creed  and  colour. 

L.   CRANMER-BYNG. 
S.  A.  KAPADIA. 

NORTHBROOK  SOCIETY, 

21  CROMWELL  ROAD, 
KENSINGTON,  S.W. 


14 


TAG 


16 


The  numbers  in  the  text  refer  to  notes  by  the  author, 
which  will  be  found  at  the  end  of  the  book. 

M.  E.  R. 


16 


CHAPTER  I 

TAG 

I  WAS  standing  in  the  Temple  of  Shien  Shan,  on 
an  islet  in  the  Chinese  Sea,  distant  a  few  hours' 
journey  from  the  harbour  of  Ha  To. 

To  the  westward  rose  two  mountain  ranges 
interweaving  their  soft  outlines  behind  the 
island.  To  the  eastward  shimmered  the  endless 
Ocean.  High  up,  rock- supported,  stood  the 
Temple,  in  the  shadow  of  broad  Buddha- trees. 

The  island  is  rarely  visited,  but  sometimes 
fisher- folk,  fleeing  before  the  threatening  typhoon, 
anchor  there  when  they  have  no  further  hope  of 
reaching  the  harbour.  Why  the  Temple  exists 
in  this  lonely  spot,  no  one  knows ;  but  the 
lapse  of  centuries  has  established  its  holy  right 
to  stand  there.  Strangers  arrive  but  seldom, 
and  there  are  only  a  hundred  poor  inhabitants, 
or  thereabouts,  who  live  there  simply  because 
their  ancestors  did  so  before  them.  I  had  gone 
thither  in  the  hope  of  finding  some  man  of  a 
2  17 


18  THE   RHYTHM   OF   LIFE 

serious  bent  of  mind  with  whom  to  study.  I 
had  explored  the  temples  and  convents  of  the 
neighbourhood  for  more  than  a  year,  in  search 
of  earnest- minded  priests  capable  of  telling  me 
what  I  was  unable  to  learn  from  the  superficial 
books  on  Chinese  religion  ;  but  I  found  nothing 
but  ignorant,  stupid  creatures  everywhere — kneel- 
ing  to  idols  whose  symbolical  significance  they 
did  not  understand,  and  reciting  strange  "  Sutras" 
not  one  word  of  which  was  intelligible  to  them.1 
And  I  had  been  obliged  to  draw  all  my  informa- 
tion from  badly- translated  works,  that  had 
received  even  worse  treatment  at  the  hands  of 
learned  Europeans  than  at  those  of  the  literary 
Chinese  whom  I  had  consulted.  At  last,  how- 
ever, I  had  heard  an  old  Chinaman  speak  of 
"  the  Sage  of  Shien  Shan  "  as  of  one  well  versed 
in  the  secrets  of  Heaven  and  Earth  ;  and — with- 
out cherishing  any  great  expectations,  it  is 
true — I  had  crossed  the  water  to  seek  him  out. 

This  Temple  resembled  many  others  that  I  had 
seen.  Grimy  priests  lounged  on  the  steps  in 
dirty-grey  garments,  and  stared  at  me  with  sense- 
less grins.  The  figures  of  "  Kwan  Yin "  and 
"Cakyamuni"  and  "  Sam-Pao-Fu "  had  been 
newly  restored,  and  blazed  with  all  imaginable 


TAG  19 

crude  colours  that  completely  marred  their 
former  beauty.  The  floor  was  covered  with  dirt 
and  dust,  and  pieces  of  orange-peel  and  sugar- 
cane were  strewn  about.  A  thick  and  heavy 
atmosphere  oppressed  my  breast. 

Addressing  one  of  the  priests,  I  said  : 

"  I  have  come  to  see  the  old  philosopher.  Does 
not  an  old  hermit  live  here,  who  is  called  after 
'Lao-Tse1  ?" 

With  a  wondering  face  he  answered  : 

"  Lao-Tse  lives  in  the  topmost  hut  on  the 
cliffs.  But  he  does  not  like  barbarians." 

I  asked  him  quietly  : 

"  Will  you  take  me  to  him,  Bikshu,  for  a 
doUar  ?  " 

He  looked  up  greedily,  but  shook  his  head, 
saying  : 

"  I  dare  not ;   seek  him  yourself." 

The  other  priests  grinned,  and  offered  me  tea, 
in  the  hope  of  "  tips." 

I  left  them,  and  climbed  the  rocks,  reaching  the 
top  in  half  an  hour ;  and  there  I  found  a  little 
square,  stone  hut.  I  knocked  at  the  door,  and, 
shortly  after,  heard  some  one  draw  back  a  bolt. 

The  hermit  stood  before  me,  gazing  at  me. 

It  was  a  revelation. 


20  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

I  seemed  to  see  a  great  light — a  light  not 
dazzling,  but  calming. 

He  stood  before  me  tall  and  straight  as  a  palm- 
tree.  His  face  was  peaceful  as  a  calm  evening, 
in  the  hush  of  the  trees,  and  the  still  moonlight ; 
his  whole  person  breathed  the  majesty  of  nature, 
un-self-conscious  in  its  beauty  as  a  mountain  or  a 
cloud.  From  him  there  radiated  the  very  soul 
of  prayer  ;  such  a  soul  as  dwells  in  the  after- 
gleam  on  a  twilit  landscape. 

I  felt  uneasy  under  his  deep  gaze,  and  saw  my 
own  poor  life  revealed  in  all  its  pettiness.  I  had 
not  a  word  to  say,  but  could  only  stand  silent  in 
that  radiant  presence. 

He  raised  his  hand  with  a  gesture  like  the 
movement  of  a  swaying  flower,  and  held  it  out 
to  me — heartily — frankly.  When  he  spoke,  his 
voice  was  soft  music,  like  the  sound  of  the  wind 
in  the  trees : 

"  I  greet  you,  stranger !  What  do  you  seek 
of  me  ? — old  man  that  I  am  !  " 

"I  seek  a  master,"  I  answered  humbly,  "to 
show  me  the  way  of  human  goodness.  I  have 
searched  this  beautiful  land  for  a  long  time,  but 
the  people  seem  as  though  they  were  dead,  and  I 
am  as  helpless  as  ever." 


TAG  21 

"  That  is  not  as  it  should  be,"  said  the  sage. 
"  Do  not  strive  so  busily  to  be  so  very  good.  Do 
not  seek  it  overmuch,  or  you  will  never  find  the 
true  wisdom.  Do  you  not  know  the  story  of  how 
the  Yellow  Emperor  *  recovered  his  magic  pearl  ? 
I  will  tell  you.* 

"  The  Yellow  Emperor  once  went  on  a  journey. 
He  travelled  round  the  north  of  the  Red  Sea,  and 
climbed  to  the  summit  of  the  Kuenlim  mountains. 
On  his  return  to  the  southward  he  lost  his  magic 
pearl.  He  besought  his  wits  to  find  it,  but  in  vain. 
He  besought  his  sight  to  find  it,  but  in  vain.  He 
besought  his  eloquence  to  find  it,  but  that  also 
was  in  vain.  His  last  appeal  was  to  Nothing,  and 
by  Nothing  it  was  restored.  '  How  strange  !  ' 
he  cried,  '  that  Nothing  should  be  able  to  recover 
it ! '  Do  you  understand  me,  young  man  ?  " 

"  I  think  this  pearl  was  his  soul,"  I  answered, 
"  and  that  knowledge,  sight,  and  speech  do  but 
cloud  the  soul  rather  than  enlighten  it ;  and  that 
it  was  only  in  the  peace  of  perfect  quietude  that 
his  soul's  consciousness  was  restored  to  the 
Yellow  Emperor.  Is  it  so,  Master  ?  " 

"  Quite  right ;  you  have  felt  it  as  it  is.  And 
do  you  know,  too,  by  whom  this  beautiful  legend 
is  told  ?  " 


22  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

"  I  am  young  and  ignorant ;  I  do  not 
know." 

"  It  is  by  Chuang-Tse,  the  disciple  of  Lao-Tse, 
China's  greatest  philosopher.  It  was  neither  Con- 
fucius nor  Mencius  who  spoke  the  purest  wisdom 
in  this  country,  but  Lao-Tse.  He  was  the 
greatest,  and  Chuang-Tse  was  his  apostle.  You 
foreigners  cherish,  I  know,  a  certain  well-meaning 
admiration  for  Lao-Tse  too,  but  I  think  but  few 
of  you  know  that  he  was  the  purest  human  being 
who  ever  breathed.  Have  you  read  the  '  Tao- 
Teh-King '  ?  and  have  you  ever  considered,  I 
wonder,  what  he  meant  by  '  Tao  '  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  grateful  indeed  if  you  would  tell 
me,  Master." 

"  I  think  I  may  gladly  help  you,  young  man. 
I  have  had  no  pupil  for  many  years  ;  and  I  see 
in  your  eyes  no  curiosity,  but  rather  a  pure 
desire  of  wisdom,  for  the  freeing  of  your  soul. 
Listen,  then :  * 

"  Tao  is  really  nothing  but  that  which  you 
Westerns  call  '  God.'  Tao  is  the  One ;  the 
beginning  and  the  end.  It  embraces  all  things, 
and  to  It  all  things  return. 

"  Lao-Tse  wrote  at  the  beginning  of  his  book 
the  sign :  Tao.  But  what  he  actually  meant 


TAG  23 

— the  Highest,  the  One — can  have  no  name,  can 
never  be  expressed  in  any  sound,  just  because  it  is 
The  One.  Equally  inadequate  is  your  term 
'  God.'  Wu— Nothing— that  is  Tao.  You  do 
not  understand  me  ? — Listen  further  !  There 
exists,  then,  an  absolute  Reality — without  be- 
ginning, without  end — which  we  cannot  compre- 
hend, and  which  therefore  must  be  to  us  as 
Nothing.  That  which  we  are  able  to  compre- 
hend, which  has  for  us  a  relative  reality,  is  in 
truth  only  appearance.  It  is  an  outgrowth,  a 
result  of  absolute  reality,  seeing  that  everything 
emanates  from,  and  returns  to,  that  reality. 
But  things  which  are  real  to  us  are  not  real  in 
themselves.  What  we  call  Being  is  hi  fact  Not- 
Being,  and  just  what  we  call  Not-Being  is  Being 
in  its  true  sense.  So  that  we  are  living  in  a  great 
obscurity.  What  we  imagine  to  be  real  is  not 
real,  and  yet  emanates  from  the  real,  for  the  Real 
is  the  Whole.  Both  Being  and  Not-Being  are 
accordingly  Tao.  But  above  all  never  forget 
that '  Tao  '  is  merely  a  sound  uttered  by  a  human 
being,  and  that  the  idea  is  essentially  inexpressible. 
All  things  appreciable  to  the  senses,  and  all 
cravings  of  the  heart,  are  unreal.  Tao  is  the 
source  of  Heaven  and  Earth.  One  begat  Two, 


24  THE   RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

Two   begat   Three,  Three  begat  Millions.     And 
Millions  return  again  into  One. 

"  If  you  remember  this  well,  young  man,  you 
have  passed  the  first  gateway  on  the  path  of 
Wisdom. 

"  You  know,  then,  that  Tao  is  the  source  of 
everything  :  of  the  trees,  the  flowers,  the  birds  ; 
of  the  sea,  the  desert,  and  the  rocks  ;  of  light  and 
darkness  ;  of  heat  and  cold  ;  of  day  and  night ; 
of  life  and  death  ;  of  summer  and  winter,  and 
of  your  own  being.  Worlds  and  Oceans  evaporate 
into  Eternity.  Man  rises  out  of  the  darkness, 
laughs  in  the  glimmering  light,  and  disappears. 
But  in  all  these  changes  the  One  is  manifested. 
Tao  is  in  everything.  Your  soul  in  her  inner- 
most is  Tao. 

"  Behold  the  world  before  you,  young 
man !  .  .  ." 

With  a  stately  gesture  he  pointed  seawards. 
The  mountains  on  both  sides  stood  fast,  uncom- 
promising, clear- set  in  the  atmosphere — like  strong 
thoughts  petrified,  hewn  out  by  conscious  energy 
— yielding  only  in  the  distance  to  the  tender 
influence  of  light  and  air.  On  a  very  high  point 
stood  a  lonely  little  tree,  of  delicate  leafage, 
against  the  light.  The  evening  began  to  fall, 


TAG  25 

with  tender  serenity  ;  and  a  rosy  glow,  dreamy 
yet  bright,  lent  the  blue  mountains,  outlined  with 
ever-growing  sharpness  against  it,  an  air  of 
joyous  peace.  In  it  all  was  to  be  felt  a  gentle 
upwardstriving,  a  still  poising,  as  of  a  conscious 
soaring  towards  piety.  And  the  sea  crept  up 
softly,  with  a  still-swaying  slide — with  the  quiet, 
irresistible  approach  of  a  type  of  infinity.  The 
sail  of  a  little  vessel,  gleaming  softly  golden, 
glided  nearer.  So  tiny  it  looked  on  that  immense 
ocean — so  fearless  and  lovely  !  All  was  pure — no 
trace  of  foulness  anywhere. 

And  I  spoke  with  the  rare  impulse  of  a  mighty 

joy. 

"  Master,  I  feel  it  now  !  That  which  I  look 
for  is  everywhere.  I  had  no  need  to  seek  it  afar 
off  ;  for  it  is  quite  close  to  me.  It  is  everywhere 
— what  I  seek,  what  I  myself  am,  what  my  soul  is. 
It  is  familiar  as  my  own  self.  It  is  all  revelation ! 
God  is  everywhere  !  Tao  is  in  everything  !  " 

"  That  is  so,  boy,  but  you  must  not  confuse  it ! 
In  that  which  you  see  is  Tao,  but  Tao  is  not  what 
you  see.  You  must  not  think  that  Tao  is  visible 
to  your  eyes.  Tao  will  neither  waken  joy  in  your 
heart  nor  draw  your  tears.  For  all  your  experi- 
ences and  emotions  are  relative  and  not  real. 


26  THE   RHYTHM   OF   LIFE 

"  But  I  will  speak  no  more  of  that  at  present. 
You  stand  now  only  at  the  first  gate,  and  see  but 
the  first  glint  of  dawn.  It  is  already  much  that 
you  should  realize  Tao  as  present  in  everything. 
It  will  make  your  life  more  natural  and  confident ; 
for,  believe  me,  you  lie  as  safely  in  Tao  as  a  child 
in  the  arms  of  its  mother.  And  it  will  lend  you 
dignity,  for  you  will  feel  your  life,  in  all  places, 
to  be  as  holy  an  office  as  that  of  a  good  priest  in 
his  temple.  You  will  no  longer  be  scared  by  the 
changes  in  things,  by  life  and  death  ;  for  you 
know  that  death,  as  well  as  life,  emanates  from 
Tao.  And  it  is  but  natural  that  Tao,  which  per- 
vaded your  life,  should  continually  surround  you 
after  death,  also. 

"  See  the  landscape  before  you !  The  trees, 
the  mountains,  the  sea,  they  are  your  brothers, 
like  the  air  and  the  light.  Watch  the  sea  ap- 
proaching us  !  So  spontaneously,  so  naturally, 
so  purely  '  because  so  it  must  be.'  See  your 
sister,  the  little  tree  on  yonder  point,  bending 
towards  you  !  and  the  simple  movement  of  her 
little  leaves  ! 

"  Now  I  will  speak  to  you  of  Wu-Wei,e  of  '  non- 
resistance,'  of  '  self- movement '  on  the  breath 
of  impulse  born  out  of  Tao.  Men  would  be  true 


TAG  27 

men  if  they  would  but  let  their  lives  flow  of  them- 
Belves,  as  the  sea  heaves,  as  a  flower  blooms,  in 
the  simple  beauty  of  Tao.  In  every  man  there 
is  an  impulse  which,  proceeding  from  Tao,  would 
urge  him  back  to  Tao  again.  But  men  grow 
blind  through  their  own  senses  and  lusts.  They 
strive  for  pleasure,  desire,  hate,  fame  and  riches. 
Their  movements  are  fierce  and  stormy,  their 
progress  a  series  of  wild  uprisings  and  violent 
falls.  They  hold  fast  to  all  that  is  unreal.  They 
desire  too  many  things  to  allow  of  their  desiring 
the  One.  They  desire,  too,  to  be  wise  and  good, 
and  that  is  worst  of  all.  They  desire  to  know 
too  much. 

"  The  one  remedy  is  :  the  return  to  the  source 
whence  they  sprang.  In  us  is  Tao.  Tao  is  rest. 
Only  by  renunciation  of  desire — even  the  desire 
for  goodness  or  wisdom — can  we  attain  rest.  Oh  ! 
all  this  craving  to  know  what  Tao  is  !  And  this 
pitiable  struggle  for  words  in  which  to  express  it 
and  to  inquire  after  it !  The  truly  wise  follow 
the  Teaching  which  is  wordless — which  remains 
unexpressed.6  And  who  shall  ever  express  it? 
Those  who  know  it  (what  Tao  is)  tell  it  not ; 
those  who  tell  it,  know  it  not. 7  Even  I  shall  not 
tell  you  what  Tao  is.  You  yourself  must  dis- 


28  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

cover  it  by  freeing  yourself  from  all  your  passions 
and  cravings,  and  living  spontaneously,  void  of 
unnatural  striving.  You  must  approach  Tao 
gently,  with  a  motion  reposeful  as  the  movement 
of  that  wide  ocean.  That  moves,  not  because 
it  chooses  to  move,  nor  because  it  knows  that  it 
is  wise  or  good  to  move  ;  it  moves  involuntarily, 
unconscious  of  movement.  Thus  lightly  floating 
will  you  also  return  into  Tao,  and  when  you  are 
returned  you  will  know  it  not,  for  you  yourself 
will  be  Tao." 

He  ceased  speaking,  and  looked  at  me  gently. 
His  eyes  shone  writh  a  quiet  light,  still  and  even  as 
the  tint  of  the  heavens. 

"  Father,"  I  said,  "  what  you  say  is  beautiful 
and  natural  as  Nature  itself  ;  but  surely  it  is  not 
so  easy — this  strifeless,  inactive  absorption  of 
man  into  Tao  ?  " 

"  Do  not  confuse  the  sense  of  my  words,"  he 
replied.  "  By  strifelessness — Wu-Wei — Lao-Tse 
did  not  mean  mere  inaction — not  mere  idling, 
with  closed  eyes.  He  meant :  relaxation  from 
earthly  activity,  from  desire — from  the  craving 
for  unreal  things.  But  he  did  exact  activity 
in  real  things.  He  implied  a  powerful  move- 
ment of  the  soul,  which  must  be  freed  from  its 


TAG  29 

gloomy  body  like  a  bird  from  its  cage.  He 
meant  a  yielding  to  the  inner  motive-force  which 
we  derive  from  Tao  and  which  leads  us  to  Tao 
again.  And,  believe  me :  this  movement  is  as 
natural  as  that  of  the  cloud  above  us." 

High  in  the  blue  ether  over  our  heads  were 
golden  clouds,  sailing  slowly  towards  the  sea. 
They  gleamed  with  a  wonderful  purity,  as  of  a 
high  and  holy  love.  Softly,  dreamily,  they 
melted  away. 

"  In  a  little  while  they  will  be  gone,  vanished 
in  the  infinity  of  the  heavens,"  said  the  her- 
mit, "  and  you  will  see  nothing  but  the  eternal 
blue.  Thus  will  your  soul  be  absorbed  into 
Tao." 

"  My  life  is  full  of  sins,"  I  answered  ;  "I  am 
heavily  burdened  with  darkening  desires.  And 
so  are  my  benighted  fellow- men.  How  can  such 
life  as  ours  ever  float  towards  Tao  in  pure  and 
spiritual  essence  ?  It  is  so  heavy  with  evil,  it 
must  surely  sink  back  into  the  mire." 

"  Do  not  believe  it !  "  he  cried,  with  a  little 
laugh  full  of  love  and  kindliness.  "  No  man 
can  annihilate  Tao,  and  there  shines  in  each 
one  of  us  the  inextinguishable  light  of  the  soul. 
Do  not  believe  the  wickedness  of  humanity  to 


30  THE   RHYTHM   OF   LIFE 

be  so  great  and  so  mighty  !  The  eternal  Tao 
dwells  in  all ;  in  murderers  and  harlots,  as  in 
philosophers  and  poets.  All  bear  within  them  an 
indestructible  treasure,  and  not  one  is  better 
than  another.  You  may  not  love  the  one  in 
preference  to  the  other  ;  you  cannot  bless  the 
one  and  damn  the  other.  They  are  as  alike  in 
essence  as  two  grains  of  sand  on  this  rock.  And 
not  one  will  be  banished  out  of  Tao  eternally, 
for  all  bear  Tao  within  them.  Their  sins  are 
illusive  as  vapours.  Their  deeds  are  a  false 
manifestation ;  and  their  words  pass  away  like 
ephemeral  dreams.  They  cannot  be  '  bad,'  they 
cannot  be  '  good '  either.  Irresistibly  they  are 
drawn  to  Tao,  as  yonder  waterdrop  to  the  great 
sea.  It  may  take  longer  with  some  than  with 
others,  that  is  all.  And  a  few  centuries — what 
matter  they,  in  the  face  of  Eternity  ?  Poor 
friend !  Has  your  sin  made  you  so  fearful  ? 
Have  you  held  your  sin  to  be  mightier  than  Tao  ? 
Have  you  held  the  sin  of  men  to  be  mightier 
than  Tao  ?  You  have  striven  too  hard  to  be 
good,  and  have  seen  your  own  misdoings  in  too 
glaring  a  light !  You  have  exacted  too  much 
goodness  from  your  fellow-men,  so  their  sin,  too, 
has  unduly  troubled  you.  But  all  this  is  only 


TAG  31 

appearance.  Tao  is  neither  good  nor  bad.  For 
Tao  is  real.  Tao  alone  is  ;  and  the  life  of  all 
unreal  things  is  a  life  of  false  contrasts  and  rela- 
tions, which  have  no  independent  existence,  and 
mislead  greatly.  So,  above  all,  do  not  desire  to 
be  good,  nor  call  yourself  bad.  You  must  be 
Wu-Wei — unstriving,  self-impelled.  Not  bad — 
not  good ;  not  little — and  not  great ;  not  low 
— and  not  high.  And  only  then  will  you  truly 
be,  when,  in  the  ordinary  sense,  you  are  not. 
When  once  you  are  free  from  all  your  seeming, 
from  all  your  craving  and  lusting,  then  you  will 
move  of  yourself,  without  so  much  as  knowing 
that  you  move ;  and  this,  your  only  true  life- 
principle — this  free,  untrammelled  motion  to- 
wards Tao — will  be  light  and  unconscious  as  the 
gliding  of  the  little  cloud  above  you." 

I  experienced  a  sudden  sense  of  freedom.  The 
feeling  was  not  joy — not  happiness.  It  was  rather 
a  gentle  sense  of  expansion — a  widening  of  my 
mental  horizon. 

"  Father,"  I  said,  "  I  thank  you  !  This  revela- 
tion of  Tao  lends  me  already  an  impulse  which, 
though  I  cannot  explain  it,  yet  seems  to  bear  me 
gently  forward. 

"  How  wonderful  is  Tao !    With  all  my  wisdom, 


32  THE   RHYTHM   OF   LIFE 

with  all  my  knowledge,  I  have  never  felt  this 
before  !  " 

"  Check  this  craving  for  wisdom  !  "  said  the 
Master.  "  Renounce  the  desire  for  too  much 
knowledge,  and  you  shall  grow,  later,  to  know 
intuitively.  The  knowledge  acquired  by  unnatural 
striving  only  leads  away  from  Tao.  Do  not  strive 
to  know  everything  about  the  men  and  things 
around  you,  nor,  more  especially,  concerning 
their  relations  and  antagonisms.  Above  all,  do 
not  seek  happiness  too  greedily,  and  do  not  fear 
unhappiness.  For  neither  of  these  is  real.  Joy 
is  not  real,  nor  pain  either.  Tao  would  not  be 
Tao,  were  you  able  to  picture  it  to  yourself  as 
pain,  as  joy,  as  happiness  or  unhappiness  ;  for 
Tao  is  One  Whole,  and  in  it  no  discords  may 
exist.  Hear  how  simply  it  is  expressed  by 
Chuang  Tse  :  '  The  greatest  joy  is  no  joy.'  And 
pain  too  will  have  vanished  for  you  !  You  must 
never  believe  pain  to  be  a  real  thing,  an  essential 
element  of  existence.  Your  pain  will  one  day 
vanish  as  the  mists  vanish  from  the  mountains. 
For  one  day  you  will  realize  how  natural,  how 
spontaneous,  are  all  facts  of  existence ;  and  all  the 
great  problems  which  have  held  for  you  mystery 
and  darkness  will  become  Wu-Wei,  quite  simple, 


TAG  33 

non-resistant,  no  longer  a  source  of  marvel  to  you. 
For  everything  grows  out  of  Tao,  everything  is  a 
natural  part  of  the  great  system  developed  from  a 
single  principle.  Then,  nothing  will  have  power 
to  trouble  you  nor  to  '  rejoice '  you  more.  You 
will  laugh  no  more,  neither  will  you  weep.'  I  see 
you  look  up  doubtfully,  as  though  you  found  me 
too  hard,  too  cold.  Nevertheless,  when  you  are 
somewhat  further  advanced  you  will  realize  that 
this  it  means,  to  be  in  perfect  sympathy  with  Tao. 
Then,  looking  upon  '  pain,'  you  will  know  that 
one  day  it  must  disappear,  because  it  is  unreal ; 
and  looking  upon  '  joy,'  you  will  understand  that 
it  is  but  a  primitive  and  shadowy  joy,  dependent 
upon  time  and  circumstance,  and  deriving  its 
apparent  existence  from  contrast  with  pain. 
Looking  upon  a  goodly  man,  you  will  find  it 
wholly  natural  that  he  should  be  as  he  is,  and 
will  realize  how  much  goodlier  he  will  be  in  that 
day  when  he  shall  no  longer  represent  the  '  kind ' 
and  '  good.'  And  upon  a  murderer  you  will  look 
with  all  calmness,  with  neither  special  love  nor 
special  hate ;  for  he  is  your  fellow  in  Tao,  and 
all  his  sin  is  powerless  to  annihilate  Tao  within 
him.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  when  you  are 
Wu-Wei  at  last — not  existing,  in  the  common 
3 


34  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

sense  of  the  word — all  will  be  well  with  you,  and 
you  will  glide  through  your  life  as  quietly  and 
naturally  as  this  great  sea  before  our  eyes. 
Nothing  will  ruffle  your  peace.  Your  sleep  shall 
be  dreamless,  and  your  consciousness  shall  bring 
you  no  care.8  You  will  see  Tao  in  all  things,  be 
one  with  all  existence,  and  look  on  the  whole  of 
Nature  as  on  something  intimately  familiar  as 
your  self.  And  passing  with  calm  acceptance 
through  the  changes  of  day  and  night,  summer 
and  winter,  life  and  death,  you  will  one  day 
enter  into  Tao,  where  there  is  no  more  change, 
and  whence  you  once  issued,  pure  as  on  your 
return." 

"  Father,  what  you  say  is  so  clear — I  must 
believe  it.  But  life  is  still  so  dear  to  me,  and 
I  am  afraid  of  death  ;  I  am  afraid  too  lest  my 
friends  should  die,  or  my  wife,  or  my  child  ! 
Death  seems  to  me  so  black  and  gloomy — and 
life  is  bright — bright — with  the  sun,  and  the 
green  and  flowery  earth  !  " 

"  That  is  because  you  fail  as  yet  to  feel  the  per- 
fect naturalness  of  death,  which  is  equal  in  reality 
to  that  of  life.  You  think  too  much  of  the  insig- 
nificant body,  and  the  deep  grave  in  which  it  must 
lie  ;  but  that  is  the  feeling  of  a  prisoner  about  to 


TAO  35 

be  freed,  who  is  troubled  at  the  thought  of  leaving 
the  dark  cell  where  he  has  lived  so  long.  You 
see  death  in  contrast  to  life  ;  and  both  are  unreal 
— both  are  a  changing  and  a  seeming.  Your  soul 
does  but  glide  out  of  a  familiar  sea  into  an 
unfamiliar  ocean.  That  which  is  real  in  you,  your 
soul,  can  never  pass  away,  and  this  fear  is  no  part 
of  her.  You  must  conquer  this  fear  for  ever  ;  or, 
better  still,  it  will  happen,  when  you  are  older, 
andhave  lived  spontaneously  andnaturally,  follow- 
ing the  motions  of  Tao,  that  you  will  of  your  own 
accord  cease  to  feel  it.  Then  you  will  mourn  no 
longer  for  those  who  have  gone  home  before  you ; 
and  one  day  you  will  be  reunited  to  them,  but 
without  realizing  it,  because  contrasts  such  as 
meeting  and  parting  will  no  longer  exist  for  you. 

"  When  Chuang-Tse's  wife  died,  the  widower 
was  found  by  Hui-Tse  sitting  calmly  upon  the 
ground,  passing  the  time,  as  was  his  wont, 
in  beating  upon  a  gong.  When  Hui-Tse  rallied 
him  upon  his  seeming  indifference,  Chuang-Tse 
replied : 

"  '  Thine  is  an  unnatural  way  of  looking  at 
things.  At  first,  it  is  true,  I  was  troubled — I 
could  not  be  otherwise.  But  after  some  ponder- 
ing I  reflected  that  originally  she  was  not  of  this 


36  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

life  at  all,  being  not  only  not  born,  but  without 
form  altogether  ;  and  that  no  life-germ  had  as 
yet  penetrated  into  this  formlessness.  That, 
nevertheless,  life-energy  then  began  to  stir,  as  in 
a  sun- warmed  furrow  ;  that  out  of  life-energy 
grew  form,  and  form  became  birth.  To-day 
another  change  has  completed  itself,  and  she 
has  died.  This  resembles  the  rise  and  fall  of 
the  four  seasons  :  spring,  autumn,  winter,  summer. 
She  sleeps  calmly  in  the  Great  House.  Were  I 
now  to  weep  and  wail,  it  were  to  act  as  though 
the  soul  of  all  this  had  not  entered  into  me — there- 
fore I  do  it  no  more.'  "  ' 

He  told  this  in  a  simple,  unaffected  manner 
that  showed  how  natural  it  seemed  to  him.  But 
it  was  not  yet  clear  to  me,  and  I  said  : 

"  I  find  this  wisdom  terrible  ;  it  almost  makes 
me  afraid.  Life  would  seem  to  me  so  cold  and 
empty,  were  I  as  wise  as  this." 

"  Life  is  cold  and  empty,"  he  answered, 
quietly,  but  with  no  trace  of  contempt  in  his 
tone ;  "  and  men  are  as  deceptive  as  life  itself. 
There  is  not  one  who  knows  himself,  not  one  who 
knows  his  fellows ;  and  yet  they  are  all  alike. 
There  is,  in  fact,  no  such  thing  as  '  life '  ;  it  ia 
unreal." 


TAO  37 

I  could  say  no  more,  and  stared  before  me  into 
the  twilight.  The  mountains — a  wonderful, 
tender  bloom  upon  them — were  sleeping  peace- 
fully, lying,  as  it  were,  in  childlike  humility, 
beneath  the  vast,  vast  sky.  Below  us  was  an 
indistinct  twinkling  of  little  red  lights.  From 
the  distance  rose  a  sad  monotonous  song,  the  wail 
of  a  flute  accompanying  it.  In  the  depths  of  the 
darkness  lay  the  sea  in  its  majesty,  and  the  sound 
of  infinitude  swelled  far  and  wide. 

Then  there  arose  in  me  a  great  sadness,  and  my 
eyes  filled,  as  with  passionate  insistence  I  asked 
him  : 

"  And  what  of  friendship,  then  ?  and  what  of 
love  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me.  I  could  not  see  him  plainly 
in  the  darkness,  but  there  shone  from  his  eyes  a 
curious,  soft  light,  and  he  answered  gently : 

"  These  are  the  best  things  in  life,  by  very  far. 
They  are  one  with  the  first  stirring  of  Tao  within 
you.  But  one  day  you  will  know  as  little  of  them 
as  the  stream  knows  of  its  banks  when  it  is  lost 
in  the  ocean.  Do  not  think  I  would  teach  you 
to  banish  love  from  your  heart ;  for  that  would 
be  to  go  against  Tao.  Love  what  you  love,  and 
do  not  be  misled  by  the  thought  that  love  is  a 


38  THE   RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

hindrance  holding  you  in  bondage.  To  banish 
love  from  your  heart  would  be  a  mad  and  earthly 
action,  and  would  put  you  further  away  from 
Tao  than  you  have  ever  been.  I  say  only,  that 
love  will  one  day  vanish  of  itself  without  your 
knowing,  and  that  Tao  is  not  Love.  But  do  not 
forget  that — so  far  as  I  wish  it,  and  so  far  as  it  is 
good  for  you — I  am  speaking  to  you  of  the  very 
highest  things.  Were  I  only  speaking  of  this 
life  and  of  men  I  should  say  :  Love  is  the  highest 
of  all.  But  for  him  who  is  absorbed  again  into 
Tao,  love  is  a  thing  past  and  forgotten. 

"  Now,  it  has  grown  late,  and  I  must  not  tell 
you  too  much  all  at  once.  You  will  surely  wish 
to  sleep  within  the  Temple,  and  I  will  prepare  it 
all  for  you.  Come  with  me — and  descend  the 
mountain  carefully  !  " 

He  lit  a  little  light,  and  held  out  his  hand  to 
lead  me.  Slowly  we  proceeded,  step  by  step. 
He  was  as  careful  of  me  as  though  I  had  been 
his  child  ;  he  lighted  my  path  at  every  steep 
descent,  and  led  me  gently  forward,  taking  heed 
of  all  my  movements. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  foot,  he  showed  me 
the  little  guest-chamber  set  apart  for  mandarins,10 
and  fetched  pillow  and  covering  for  me. 


TAG  39 

"  I  thank  you,  Father,  from  my  heart !  "  I 
said.  "  When  shall  I  ever  be  able  to  show  my 
gratitude  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  quietly,  and  the  look  was 
great,  like  the  sea.  Calm  he  was,  and  tender  as 
the  night.  He  smiled  at  me,  and  it  was  like  the 
light  laughing  upon  the  earth.  And  silently  he 
left  me. 


ART 


41 


CHAPTER  II 

ART 

"  WHAT  is  art  ?  "  I  asked  the  hermit.  "  What 
is  poetry  ?  " 

We  were  sitting  on  the  mountain-side,  in  the 
shadow  of  an  overhanging  rock.  Before  us 
stretched  the  sea — one  endless  gleam  of  light  in  the 
sunshine.  Golden  sails  were  driving  quietly  over 
it ;  white  seagulls  swept  in  noble  curvings  lightly 
to  and  fro  ;  and  great,  snow-pure  clouds,  gather- 
ing in  the  blue,  sailed  by  in  majestic  procession. 

"It  is  as  natural  as  the  sea — the  birds — the 
clouds,"  he  answered.  "  I  do  not  think  you  will 
find  this  so  hard  to  realise  as  Tao.  To  know  it, 
you  have  only  to  look  round  you — upon  the 
earth,  into  the  air.  Poetry  has  existed  as  long 
as  heaven  and  earth.11 

"  Beauty  was  born  with  the  heavens  and  the 
earth.  The  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  red  mists  of 
morning  and  evening  illumine  each  other ;  yet 
the  inexhaustible  and  wonderful  changes  pre- 
sented by  these  great  phenomena  of  Nature 
are  created  without  the  help  of  dye  or  pigment. 

43 


44  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

"  All  phenomena  of  the  world  bring  forth  sound 
when  set  in  motion,  and  every  sound  implies  some 
motion  which  has  caused  it.  The  greatest  of  all 
sounds  are  wind  and  thunder. 

"  Listen  to  the  mountain  stream  racing  over  the 
rocks  !  As  soon  as  it  is  set  in  motion,  the  sound 
of  it — high  or  low,  short  or  long — makes  itself 
heard,  not  actually  according  to  the  laws  of 
music,  it  is  true,  yet  having  a  certain  rhythm  and 
system. 

"  This  is  the  spontaneous  voice  of  heaven  and 
earth  ;  the  voice  that  is  caused  by  movement. 

"  And  so  it  is  that  in  the  purest  state  of  the 
human  heart — when  the  fire  of  the  spirit  is  at 
its  brightest — then,  if  it  be  moved,  that  too  will 
give  forth  sound.  Is  it  not  a  wondrous  metamor- 
phosis that  out  of  this  should  spring  a  literature  ? 

"  Poetry,  then,  is  the  sound  of  the  heart ! 

"  You  can  see  how  natural  this  is.  Poetry  is 
to  be  heard  and  seen  everywhere,  for  the  whole  of 
Nature  is  one  great  poet.  But,  just  because  of  its 
naturalness,  it  is  strict  and  unalterable.  Where 
the  spring  of  movement  is,  there  flows  the  sound 
of  the  poem.  Any  other  sound  is  no  poetry. 
The  sound  must  come  quite  of  itself — Wu-Wei — 
it  cannot  be  generated  by  any  artifices.  There 


ART  45 

are  many — how  many  ! — who  by  unnatural 
movement  force  forth  sound ;  but  these  are  no 
poets — they  are  more  like  apes  and  parrots. 
Few  indeed  are  the  true  poets.  From  these  the 
verse  flows  of  itself,  full  of  music  ;  powerful  as 
the  roaring  of  the  torrent  amongst  the  rocks,  as 
the  rolling  of  thunder  in  the  clouds  ;  soft  as  the 
swish  of  an  evening  shower,  or  the  gentle  breath 
of  a  summer  night-breeze.  Hark  !  hark  to  the 
sea  at  our  feet !  Is  it  not  singing  a  wondrous 
song  ?  Is  it  not  a  very  poem  ?  Is  it  not  pure 
music  ?  See  how  the  waves  sway,  in  ceaseless 
mobility,  one  after  the  other,  one  over  the  other 
— swinging  onward  and  onward,  ever  further  and 
further — returning  to  vanish  in  music  once  more  ! 
Do  you  hear  their  rhythmic  rushing  ?  Oh ! 
great  and  simple  must  a  poet  be — like  the  sea  ! 
His  movement,  like  that  of  the  sea,  is  an  impulse 
out  of  Tao,  and  in  that — tranquil,  strifeless, 
obedient  as  a  child — must  he  let  himself  go. 
Great,  great  is  the  sea.  Great,  great  is  the 
poet.  But  greater — greater — is  Tao,  that  which 
is  not  great !  " 

Then  he  was  silent,  listening  to  the  sea,  and  I 
saw  how  the  music  of  it  entered  into  him. 

I  had  reflected  much  since  hearing  his  first 


46  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

words  on  the  subject  of  Tao.  I  was  fearful  lest 
his  great  and  lofty  philosophy  should  mean 
death  to  the  artist,  and  that  I  too,  in  giving  my- 
self over  to  this  wisdom  of  his,  should  become 
incapable  of  feeling  a  poet's  inspiration,  or  a 
child  like  rapture  at  the  sight  of  beauty. 

But  he  himself  was  standing  there  in  the  purest 
ecstasy,  as  though  he  were  now  looking  upon  the 
sea  for  the  first  time ;  and  reverently,  with 
shining  eyes,  he  listened  to  the  rush  of  the  waves. 
"  Is  it  not  beautiful  ?  "  he  said  again,  "  is  it  not 
beautiful  ? — this  sound,  that  came  out  of  Tao,  the 
soundless  ! — this  light,  that  shone  out  of  Tao,  the 
lightless  ! — and  the  word-music  :  verse,  born  of 
Tao  the  wordless  !  We  live,  indeed,  in  an  endless 
mystery — resolving  one  day  into  absolute  truth !  " 

I  was  a  long  time  silent.  But  I  could  not  grasp 
it  yet.  And  I  asked  him  doubtfully  :  "Is  it 
really  so  easy — to  make  and  sing  poems  ?  Surely 
it  cannot  be  as  easy  for  us  to  bring  forth  verse  as 
for  the  stream  to  rush  over  the  rocks  ?  Must  we 
not  first  practise  and  train  ourselves,  and  learn 
to  know  the  verse-forms  thoroughly  ?  And  is 
not  that  voluntary  action,  rather  than  involun- 
tary motion  ?  " 

He  answered  without  hesitation  : 


ART  47 

"  That  need  not  perplex  you.  All  depends  on 
whether  a  man  has  in  him  the  true  spring  from 
which  the  verse  should  flow,  or  not ;  whether  he 
has  the  pure  impulse  from  Tao  within  him,  or 
whether  his  life-motive  is  something  less  simple, 
less  beautiful.  If  he  has  that  source  in  him,  he 
is  a  poet ;  if  he  has  it  not,  he  is  none.  By  this 
time  you  surely  realize  that,  strictly  speaking, 
in  the  highest  sense,  all  men  are  poets  ;  for,  as  I 
have  told  you,  there  exists  in  all  men  the  essential, 
original  impulse  emanating  from  and  returning 
to  Tao.  But  it  is  rare  to  find  this  impulse  alert 
and  strongly  developed — and  men  are  rarely 
able  to  grasp  the  higher  revelations  of  beauty 
through  which  their  bank-bound  life-stream  flows 
till  it  loses  itself  in  eternity.  One  might  express 
it  thus  :  that  ordinary  men  are  like  still  water  in 
swampy  ground,  in  the  midst  of  poor  vegetation ; 
while  poets  are  clear  streams,  flowing  amidst  the 
splendour  of  luxuriant  banks  to  the  boundless 
ocean.  But  I  will  not  speak  so  metaphorically. 

;<  You  want  to  know  whether  a  man  who  has 
the  true  inspiration  of  the  poet  must  not,  never- 
theless, still  train  himself  in  his  art,  or  whether 
he  moves  in  it  quite  spontaneously  ?  The  latter 
is  the  truer  view !  For  a  young  poet,  having 


48  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

given  but  a  short  time  to  the  study  of  verse  in  all 
its  variety,  suddenly  comes  to  find  these  forms 
so  natural  as  to  preclude  his  inclination  for  any 
other.  His  verse  assumes  beautiful  form  involun- 
tarily, simply  because  other  movement  would  be 
alien.  That  is  just  the  difference  between  the 
poet  and  the  amateur  :  that  the  poet  sings  his 
verse  spontaneously,  from  his  own  impulse,  and 
only  afterwards,  proving  it,  finds  it  to  be  right 
in  sound — in  rhythm — in  all  its  movement ; 
whereas  the  amateur,  after  first  marking  out  for 
himself  a  certain  form,  according  to  the  approved 
pattern  of  the  art-learned,  proceeds  to  project 
by  main  force  a  series  of  soulless  words  upon  it. 
The  soulful  words  of  the  poet  flowed  of  them- 
selves just  because  they  were  soulful.  And,  if 
we  view  things  in  their  true  light,  there  do  actu- 
ally exist  no  hard  and  fast  forms  for  poetry,  and 
absolutely  no  laws  ;  for  a  verse  which  flows  spon- 
taneously from  its  source  moves  of  itself,  and  is 
independent  of  all  preconceived  human  standards  ! 
The  one  law  is  that  there  shall  be  no  law.  Per- 
haps you  will  find  this  too  daring,  young  man  ! 
But  remember  that  I  take  my  illustrations  from 
Tao,  not  from  men,  and  that  I  know,  moreover, 
but  very  few  true  poets.  The  man  who  is  simple 


ART  49 

and  pure  as  Nature  is  rare  indeed.  Think  you 
that  there  are  many  such  in  your  own  country  ?  " 

This  unexpected  question  took  me  aback,  and 
I  wondered  why  he  asked  it.  It  was  hard  to 
answer,  too,  so  I  asked  him  first  another  question  : 

"  Master,  I  cannot  answer  until  you  have  told 
me  more.  Why  does  a  poet  make  a  poem  ?  " 

Then  he  laughed  outright,  and  said : 

"  Why  does  the  sea  roar  ?  Why  does  the  bird 
sing  ?  Do  you  know  that,  my  son  ?  " 

"  Because  they  cannot  help  it,  Father,  because 
they  simply  must  give  their  nature  vent  in  that 
way  !  It  is  Wu-Wei !  " 

"  Quite  so  !  Well — and  why  should  it  be 
different  with  a  poet  ?  " 

I  considered,  and  answered  hesitatingly  : 

"  Yes,  but  it  may  be  different.  A  poet  may 
write  for  the  sake  of  creating  or  enriching  a 
literature,  where  there  is  none,  or  it  is  in  danger 
of  dying  out.  That  is  a  fine- sounding  motive, 
but  not  a  pure  one.  Then,  some  poets  write 
for  glory — to  be  famous  and  crowned  with  laurels, 
and  to  gain  smiles  from  the  fair  maidens  who 
strew  flowers  on  their  path  !  " 

"  You  must  express  yourself  more  exactly," 
said  the  hermit,  "  and  not  desecrate  terms  that 
4 


50  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

are  held  so  sacred.  For  poets  who  sing  for  such 
reasons  are  no  poets  at  all.  A  poet  sings  because 
he  sings.  He  cannot  sing  with  any  given 
purpose,  or  he  becomes  an  amateur." 

"  But,  Father,  supposing  a  poet  has  sung  as 
simply  as  a  bird,  can  he  afterwards  take  pleasure 
in  the  laurels  and  the  roses  ?  Can  he  be  jealous 
of  those  who  gain  rewards  which  he  believes  to 
be  due  to  himself  ?  Can  he  belie  his  convictions 
and  deny  beauty,  because  he  is  opposed  to  those 
who  created  it  ?  Can  he  praise  what  he  knows 
to  be  bad  for  the  sake  of  possible  advantage  ? 
Can  he  affect  a  pose  of  unconventionality  in 
order  to  gain  prominence  through  eccentricity  ? 
Can  he  think  himself  better  than  the  common  run 
of  men  ?  Can  he  shake  the  hands  of  the  mob 
which  applauds  him  ?  Can  he  hate  those  who 
ridicule  him  instead  of  honouring  him  ?  How 
do  you  explain  all  this  ?  It  all  seems  to  me  so 
incompatible  with  the  simplicity  of  the  little 
bird  and  the  great  sea  !  " 

"  All  these  questions,  my  young  friend,  are  an 
answer  to  my  question,"  he  replied  ;  "for  they  are 
a  proof  that  there  are  not  many  poets  in  your 
country.  Remember  that  I  use  the  term  '  poet ' 
in  its  purest,  highest  sense.  A  poet  can  only 


ART  51 

live  for  his  art,  which  he  loves  for  itself,  and 
not  as  a  means  to  secure  fleeting  earthly  pleasures. 
A  poet  looks  upon  men  and  things — in  their 
nature  and  relationship — so  simply,  that  he  him- 
self approaches  very  nearly  to  the  nature  of  Tao. 
Other  men  see  men  and  things  hazily,  as  if  through 
a  fog.  The  poet  realizes  this  as  an  incontestable 
fact.  How,  then,  can  he  expect  his  simplicity  to 
be  understood  by  the  confused  mind  of  the 
public  ?  How  can  he  cherish  feelings  of  hate 
and  grief  when  it  ridicules  him  ?  How  can  he 
feel  any  pleasure  when  it  does  him  honour  ?  It 
is  the  same  in  this  case  as  with  the  four  '  seasons  ' 
of  Chuang-Tse.  There  is  nothing  specially  agita- 
ting in  it  all,  because  it  is  the  natural  course  of 
things.  So  the  poet  is  neither  in  despair  when 
he  is  ignored,  nor  pleased  when  he  is  feted.  He 
looks  upon  the  way  the  public  behaves  towards 
him  as  a  natural  consequence,  of  which  he  knows 
the  cause.  The  judgment  of  the  common  people 
is  not  even  so  much  as  indifferent  to  him — it 
simply  does  not  exist  for  him.  He  does  not  sing 
his  verses  for  the  sake  of  the  people,  but  because 
he  cannot  help  himself.  The  sound  of  human 
comment  on  his  work  escapes  him  entirely,  and 
he  knows  not  whether  he  be  famous  or  forgotten. 


52  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

'  The  highest  fame  is  no  fame.'*  You  look  at 
me,  young  man,  as  though  I  were  telling  stranger 
things  than  you  ever  dared  to  dream  of.  But  I 
am  only  telling  the  plainest  truth,  simple  and 
natural  as  the  truth  in  landscape  or  sea.  Having 
lived  till  so  lately  in  the  midst  of  the  strenuous  life 
of  your  countrymen,  you  have  never  yet  seen  true 
simplicity.  For  so  long  you  have  heard  nothing 
spoken  of  but  '  fame,'  '  earnings,'  '  honour,' 
'  artists,'  and  '  immortality,'  that,  for  all  you 
know,  these  things  may  be  indispensable  as  air, 
and  real  as  your  soul.  But  it  is  all  an  illusion 
and  deception.  Those  whom  you  have  seen  may 
indeed  have  been  poets  of  true  fibre,  but  they 
had  lapsed  from  the  Tao-born  impulse  which 
was  their  life-principle,  and  they  did  not  remain 
what  they  were,  but  sank  through  their  weakness 
to  the  nature  of  commonplace  men.  So  that 
they  have  come  to  do  as  ordinary  men  do,  only 
they  do  it  more  strongly.  So  much  do  I  gather 
from  your  questioning.  But  all  these  are  poets  no 
longer,  and  will  sing  no  more  true  poetry  so  long 
as  they  remain  as  they  are.  For  the  smallest 
deviation  from  the  original  impulse  is  enough  to 
kill  the  poetry  within  them.  There  is  but  the 

*  From  the   "  Nan  Hwa  King,"   chap,   xviii. 


ART  53 

one  direct  way  :  single  and  simple  as  a  maiden 
— uncompromising  as  a  straight  line.  This 
straight  line  is  spontaneity ;  outside  it  lie  false 
activity,  artificiality,  and  the  roads  to  name  and 
fame,  where  occur  murder  and  sudden  death, 
and  where  one  bosom  friend  will  suck  the  life- 
blood  from  another  to  further  the  attainment  of 
his  own  ends.  The  straight  line  cuts  its  own  way, 
without  deviation  or  secret  windings, 'into  infinity. 

"  So  you  see,  all  those  conditions  under  which 
the  artist  might  become  a  victim  to  the  persecu- 
tion of  the  mob  fall  away  of  themselves.  You 
have  probably  read,  in  the  history  both  of  your 
country  and  my  own,  of  poets  who  have  died  of 
grief  at  want  of  recognition,  or  who  have  taken 
their  own  lives  on  account  of  undeserved  ridicule. 
I  have  always  felt  the  pathos  of  this,  but  I  have 
realized  that  to  such  as  these  the  term  truly  great 
cannot  be  applied. 

"  And  I  am  speaking,  of  course,  not  of  the 
artists  of  speech  only,  but  of  all  artists.  Shall  I 
show  you  now  something  by  an  artist  who  was 
as  true  and  simple-minded  as  it  is  possible  to 
conceive  a  man  to  be  ? — Come  with  me  then  !  " 

He  led  me  into  a  small  room  hi  his  hut — a  cell 
with  white  walls,  and  no  furniture,  save  the  bed, 


54  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

a  table  covered  with  books,  and  a  few  chairs. 
He  opened  a  door  in  the  wall,  and  drew  out  from 
it  a  wooden  chest.  This  he  carried  as  carefully  as 
though  it  had  been  some  sacred  object  or  a  little 
child.  He  set  it  gently  down  upon  the  floor, 
opened  the  lid,  and  lifted  out  a  closed  shrine  of 
red- brown  wood,  which  he  placed  upon  the  table.18 

"  Look,"  he  remarked,  "  this  is  a  beautiful 
shrine,  to  begin  with.  A  beautiful  thing  must  have 
a  beautiful  setting.  At  present  the  little  doors 
are  shut.  Do  you  not  find  this  a  goodly  idea  : 
to  be  able  always  to  hide  it  from  profane  eyes  in 
this  way  ?  But  before  you  I  may  well  open  it." 

And  the  two  wings  of  the  shrine  flew  apart. 

Against  a  background  of  pale  blue  silk  appeared 
a  large  figure,  gleaming,  and  shimmering,  with 
a  wonderful  radiance  of  its  own.  It  was  the 
Buddha  Kwan  Yin,  seated  upon  a  lotus  that 
reared  itself,  straight,  and  graceful,  and  modestly 
opened,  above  a  tumult  of  wild  waves.  1S 

"  Can  you  feel  the  utter  simplicity  and  beauty 
of  this  ?  "  he  asked  me ;  and  his  voice  thrilled 
with  a  great  and  tender  love.  "  Is  not  this  the 
very  embodiment  of  rest  ? — How  serene  is  the 
face — how  wonderfully  tender,  and  yet  how 
tensely  grave,  with  its  closed  eyes  gazing  into 


ART  55 

infinity  !  See — the  cheek, — how  delicate  and 
tender  !  See — the  mouth — and  the  lofty  curving 
of  the  eyebrows — and  the  pure  pearl  gleaming 
above  the  forehead  14 — symbol  of  a  soul  taking 
its  flight  from  the  body !  And  the  body — how 
few  are  the  lines  of  it !  Yet  see  :  what  infinite 
love  and  mercifulness  in  the  droop  of  the  left 
arm  ;  and  in  the  uplifted  right  arm — with  two 
raised  fingers,  held  together  as  in  the  act  of  preach- 
ing— what  an  indescribable  holiness !  And  how 
beautiful  the  repose  of  the  crossed  legs  resting 
so  softly  upon  the  lotus ! — And  see — how 
tenderly  felt,  notwithstanding  the  immense 
strength  and  restraint  of  the  whole — the  delicate 
soles  of  the  feet,  curved  with  such  subtle  gentle- 
ness ! — Is  it  not  the  very  embodiment  of  the 
essence  of  all  Buddhism  ?  You  do  not  need  to 
have  read  anything  of  Buddhism  in  order  to 
appreciate  it  now,  here,  in  all  its  inmost  meaning. 
Is  it  not  perfect  Rest — this  ideally  pure  counte- 
nance, gazing  thus  stilly  into  eternity  ?  Is  it  not 
perfect  Love  for  the  world — this  simple  droop 
of  the  arm  ?  And  is  not  the  essence  of  the  whole 
doctrine  grasped  and  confined  in  the  pose  of  the 
uplifted  fingers  ? 

"  And  then — the  material  of  which  such  a 


56  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

figure  as  this  is  made  !  Do  you  realize,  I  wonder, 
that  an  artist  such  as  this  must  have  laboured  for 
years  and  years  before  his  material  became  as 
pure  and  ethereal  as  he  required  it  to  be  ?  For 
the  nature  of  stone  is  so  hard — is  it  not  ? — and 
the  general  idea  of  it :  matter — that  would  suit 
but  ill  for  the  plastic  representation  of  the  ideal 
conception :  Rest. — So  the  artist  wrought  upon 
all  kinds  of  common  materials,  such  as  clay,  sand, 
and  earth,  and  transformed  them,  by  means  of 
fit  and  harmonious  combination  with  precious 
stones,  pearls,  and  jasper,  into  costly  substances. 
And  so  the  material  for  this  figure  became  some- 
thing that  was  no  longer  material,  but  rather 
the  incarnation  of  a  sublime  idea.  The  artist 
wanted  to  symbolize,  too,  in  his  representation, 
the  rosy  dawn  which  broke  upon  mankind  on 
the  appearance  of  Buddha  ;  and  so,  shimmering 
through  the  snowy  white  of  his  porcelain,  he 
introduced  just  such  a  subtle,  rosy  glow  as  plays 
upon  the  morning  clouds  before  the  glory  of  the 
sun  bursts  forth.  Is  not  this  half-realized, 
growing  light  more  instinct  with  feeling  than 
light  itself  ?  Can  you  perceive  this  indefinite, 
yet  clear  and  rosy  colour,  shimmering  throughout 
the  white  ?  Is  it  not  chaste  as  the  first  soft 


ART  57 

blush  on  the  white  forehead  of  a  maiden  ?  Is 
it  not  the  godly  love  of  the  artist  that  we  see 
thus  glowing  in  the  pure  whiteness  ?  Such  a 
figure  is,  in  fact,  no  longer  a  figure.  The  idea  of 
material  is  entirely  obliterated  ;  it  is  a  miracle." 

For  a  long  time  I  was  too  much  moved  to  speak. 
The  purifying  beauty  of  this  work  of  art  stirred 
my  soul  even  more  deeply  than  the  pure  wisdom 
of  the  old  philosopher.  At  last  I  asked  gently  : 

"  Who  created  this  marvellous  thing  ?  I 
would  like  to  know,  so  that  I  may  always  keep 
his  name  with  yours  in  reverent  remembrance." 

"  That  is  of  very  little  importance,  my  young 
friend!"  he  answered.  "The  soul  that  was 
in  this  artist  is  absorbed  again  into  Tao,  just  as 
yours  will  be  one  day.  His  body  has  fallen 
away,  like  the  leaves  from  a  tree,  just  as  yours,  in 
time,  will  fall  away.  Then  what  weight  can  one 
attach  to  his  name  ?  But  I  will  tell  it  you  ;  he 
was  called  Ch'en  Wei,15  and  he  engraved  this 
name  in  finely  designed  characters  upon  the  back 
of  the  figure,  as  was  the  custom  at  that  time. 
Who  was  he  ?  Just  a  common  workman,  of 
course,  who  did  not  even  know,  himself,  that 
he  was  an  artist ;  who  considered  himself  nothing 
more  than  a  simple  peasant,  and  had  not  the 


58  THE   RHYTHM   OF   LIFE 

least  suspicion  that  his  work  was  so  beautiful. 
But  he  must  have  gazed  much  at  the  heavens 
and  clouds  above  him,  and  have  loved  the  wide 
seas,  and  the  landscapes,  and  the  flowers  ;  other- 
wise he  could  not  have  been  so  fine  in  feeling  ; 
for  such  simple  lines  and  pure  colours  are  only 
found  in  Nature.     He  was  certainly  not  cele- 
brated ;  you  will  not  find  his  name  in  any  history. 
I  could  not  tell  you  where  he  came  from,  nor  how 
he  lived,  nor  to  what  age.     I  know  only  that  it 
is   more   than  four   hundred   years   since   such 
figures  as  these  were  made,  and  that  connoisseurs 
reckon  that  this  one  dates  from  the  fi^st  half  of 
the  Ming  Dynasty.    Most  probably  the  artist  lived 
quite  quietly  the  same  sort  of  life  as  the  other 
people,    worked    industriously    as    a    common 
labourer,  and  died  humbly,  unconscious  of  his 
own   greatness.     But   his   work  remained,   and 
this  image,  by  a  fortunate  chance,  found  its  way 
to  this  district,  which  the  last  wars  did  not  touch, 
and  is  still  the  same  as  when  he  made  it.     And 
thus  it  may  last  on  for  centuries  and  centuries, 
in  inextinguishable  radiance,  in  maidenly  majesty. 
O,  to  create  such  a  thing  as  this,  in  pure,  uncon- 
scious simplicity — that  is  to  be  a  poet !     That 
is  the  art  which  dates  not  from  time  but  from 


ART  59 

eternity !  How  beautiful !  Is  it  not  ?  This 
porcelain,  that  is  almost  indestructible ;  this 
radiance,  which  never  dies  away !  Here  it 
stands,  upon  the  earth,  so  strong  and  yet  so 
tender  ;  and  so  it  will  still  be,  long  after  our  suc- 
cessors are  dead !  And  the  soul  of  the  artist  is 
with  Tao  !  " 

We  looked  at  the  image  for  a  long  time. 
Then  he  took  careful  hold  of  the  shrine  once  more. 

"  It  is  so  delicate,"  he  said,  "  that  I  hardly 
dare  to  expose  it  to  broad  daylight.  For  this 
miracle  of  tenderness — ethereal  as  a  soul — the 
daylight  is  too  hard.  I  feel  a  kind  of  anxiety 
lest  the  light  should  suddenly  break  it  in  pieces  ; 
or  cause  it  to  dissolve  like  a  little  light  cloud — so 
wholly  soul-like  is  its  composition  !  " 

And  gently,  very  gently,  he  replaced  the  shrine 
within  the  chest,  which  he  closed. 

He  went  out  now,  before  me,  and  we  seated 
ourselves  again  beneath  the  overhanging  rock. 

"  How  beautiful  it  would  be,"  I  said,  "  if 
everyone  could  make  things  like  that,  in  all 
simplicity,  and  surround  themselves  with  them, 
everywhere !  " 

"  Everyone  !  "  he  answered  ;  "  well,  that  is 
perhaps  too  much  to  expect !  But  there  really 


60  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

was  once  a  time  when  this  great  kingdom  was 
one  big  temple  of  art  and  beauty.  You  may 
still  see  the  traces  of  it  here  in  China.  At  that 
time  the  greater  number  of  the  people  were 
simple-minded  artists.  All  objects  surrounding 
them  were  beautiful,  the  smallest  thing  as  well 
as  the  greatest — whether  it  were  a  temple,  a 
garden,  a  table,  a  chair,  or  a  knife.  Just  examine 
the  little  tea-cups,  or  the  smallest  censers  of  that 
period  !  The  poorest  coolie  ate  out  of  vessels  as 
perfect  in  their  way  as  my  Kwan-Yin  image.  All 
objects  were  beautifully  made,  and  involuntarily 
so.  The  simple  artisans  did  not  consider  them- 
selves '  artists,'  or  in  any  way  different  from 
their  fellow-men,  and  no  petty  strife  can  have 
arisen  between  them,  otherwise  there  would  have 
been  an  end  of  their  art.  Everything  was  beauti- 
ful because  they  were  all  single-minded  and 
worked  honestly.  It  was  as  natural  in  those  days 
for  things  to  be  beautiful  as  it  is  nowadays  for 
them  to  be  ugly.  The  art  of  China  has  sunk  to 
its  lowest  ebb  ;  that  is  a  consequence  of  its 
miserable  social  condition.  You  have  surely 
remarked  that  the  art  of  the  country  is  deteriora- 
ting. And  that  is  a  death-sign  for  this  great 
Empire.  For  Art  is  inseparably  connected  with 


ART  61 

the  full  bloom  of  a  country's  life.  If  the  art 
declines,  then  the  whole  country  degenerates.  I 
do  not  mean  this  in  the  political,  but  rather  in  the 
moral  sense.  For  a  morally  strong  and  simple- 
hearted  people  brings  forth  involuntarily  a 
strong  and  healthy  art. — Yes,  what  you  said  is 
true ;  how  much  better  men's  lives  would  be 
if  they  could  only  create  for  themselves  better 
surroundings  !  And  how  extraordinary  that  this 
is  not  done !  For  Nature  remains  ever  and 
everywhere  accessible  to  them.  See  the  clouds — 
the  trees — the  sea  !  " 

The  sea  was  still,  as  ever,  splashing  at  our 
feet — boundless  and  pure.  Clouds  sailed  majesti- 
cally landwards,  with  a  slow  motion,  in  the  full 
blaze  of  the  light.  Golden  gleams,  falling  upon 
the  mountains,  vanished  again  with  the  rhyth- 
mical sweep  of  the  clouds.  Light  and  motion, 
sound  and  play  of  colour,  everywhere ! 

The  hermit  gazed  calmly  and  confidingly  at 
this  infinite  loveliness,  as  though  deeply  conscious 
of  the  intimate  relationship  existing  between  him 
and  all  his  surroundings.  He  seemed  to  guess 
what  was  in  my  mind  as  I  looked  at  him,  for  he 
said  : 

"  We  fit  as  naturally  into  this  beauty  around 


62  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

us  as  a  tree  or  a  mountain.  If  we  can  but 
remain  so,  we  shall  always  retain  the  feeling  of 
our  own  well-being,  midst  all  the  great  workings 
of  the  world-system.  So  much  has  been  said 
about  human  life  ;  and  scholars  have  created 
such  an  endless  labyrinth  of  theories  !  And  yet 
in  its  inmost  kernel  it  is  as  plain  as  Nature.  All 
things  are  equal  in  simplicity,  and  nothing  is 
really  in  confusion,  however  often  it  may  seem 
as  though  it  were  so.  Everything  moves  as 
surely  and  inevitably  as  the  sea." 

There  rang  in  his  voice  both  the  love  of  the 
poet  and  the  assurance  of  the  scholar  who  takes 
his  stand  upon  incontestable  truth. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  for  to-day  ? "  was  his 
friendly  question  ;  "  and  have  I  helped  you  a 
little  ?  Do  you  feel  more  clearly  now  what 
poetry  is  ?  " 

"  Father,"  I  answered,  "  your  wisdom  is  poetry, 
and  your  poetry  is  wisdom  !  How  is  that  ?  " 

"  That  is  quite  true  from  your  point  of  view," 
he  answered.  "  But  you  still  have  to  learn  that 
all  these  words  are  only  a  formula.  I  do  not 
know  what  my  wisdom  is,  nor  my  poetry.  It  is 
all  one.  It  is  so  simple  and  natural,  when  once 
you  understand  this  !  It  is  all  Tao." 


LOVE 


63 


CHAPTER  III 

LOVE 

IT  was  evening  once  more.  We  were  resting 
again  upon  the  soft  turf  of  the  mountain-side, 
the  quietness  of  our  mood  in  sympathy  with  the 
solemn  stillness  of  twilight.  The  distant  moun- 
tain-ranges reposed  in  an  atmosphere  breathing 
reverence  and  devotion,  as  though  kneeling 
motionless  to  receive  the  slow-descending  blessing 
of  night.  The  lonely  trees  dotted  here  and  there 
about  the  hills  stood  motionless  too,  in  a  pause  of 
silent  worshipping.  The  sound  of  the  sea  was 
distant  and  indistinct,  lost  in  its  own  vastness. 
Peace  reigned,  and  dreamy  sounds  ascended,  as 
of  prayer. 

The  hermit  stood  before  me,  stately  as  a  tree 
in.  the  midst  of  Nature,  and  awe-inspiring  as  the 
evening  itself. 

I  had  returned  to  question  him  again.     For  my 

soul  found  no  repose  apart  from  him,  and  a 

mighty   impulse  was   stirring   within   me.     But 

now  that  I  found  myself  near  him,  I  hardly 

5  65 


66  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

dared  to  speak  ;  and  indeed  it  seemed  as  though 
words  were  no  longer  needed — as  though  every- 
thing lay,  of  itself,  open  and  clear  as  daylight. 
How  goodly  and  simple  everything  appeared 
that  evening !  I  recognized  my  own  inmost 
being  in  all  the  beauty  around  me,  with  a  dreamy 
sense  of  its  drifting  into  the  Infinite. 

But  I  broke  in  at  last  upon  this  train  of  thought, 
and  cleft  the  peaceful  silence  with  my  voice  : 

"  Father,"  I  said  sadly,  "  all  your  words  have 
sunk  into  my  mind,  and  my  soul  is  filled  with  the 
balm  of  them.  It  is  no  longer  my  own  soul ;  no 
longer  what  it  was.  It  is  as  though  I  were  dead  ; 
yet,  day  and  night,  something — I  know  not 
what — is  taking  place  within  me,  causing  a 
strange  vacancy  and  lightness  in  my  mind. 
Father,  I  know  it  is  Tao  ;  it  is  death,  and  glorious 
resurrection ;  but  it  is  not  love  ;  and  without 
love,  Tao  appears  to  me  but  a  gloomy  lie." 

The  old  man  looked  round  him  at  the  evening 
scene,  and  smiled  gently. 

"  What  is  love  ?  "  he  asked  calmly.  "  Are  you 
sure  about  that,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  sure,"  I  answered.  "  I  do  not 
know  anything  about  it,  but  that  is  just  the 
reason  of  its  great  blessedness.  Yes,  oh  !  do  but 


LOVE  67 

let  me  express  it !  I  mean  :  love  of  a  maiden,  love 
of  a  woman.  I  remember  yet,  Father,  what  it 
was  to  me  when  I  saw  the  maiden,  and  my  soul 
knew  delight  for  the  first  time.  It  was  like  a 
sea,  like  a  broad  heaven,  like  death.  It  was  light 
— and  I  had  been  blind !  It  hurt,  Father — my 
heart  beat  so  violently — and  my  eyes  burned. 
The  world  was  a  fire,  and  all  things  were  strange, 
and  began  to  live.  It  was  a  great  flame  flaring 
from  out  my  soul.  It  was  so  fearful,  but  so 
lovely,  and  so  infinitely  great !  Father,  I  think 
it  was  greater  than  Tao  !  " 

"  I  know  well  what  it  was,"  said  the  sage.  "  It 
was  Beauty,  the  earthly  form  of  the  formless  Tao 
on  earth,  calling  up  in  you  the  rhythm  of  that 
movement  by  which  you  will  enter  into  Tao. 
You  might  have  experienced  the  same  at  sight 
of  a  tree,  a  cloud,  or  a  flower.  But  because  you 
are  human,  living  by  desire,  therefore  to  you  it 
could  only  be  revealed  through  another  human 
being,  a  woman — because,  too,  that  form  is  to 
you  more  easily  understood,  and  more  familiar. 
And  as  passion  overmastered  pure  contempla- 
tion, the  rhythm  within  you  was  wrought  up 
into  a  wild  tempest,  like  a  fierce  flood  that 
knows  not  whither  it  is  tending.  The  inmost 


68  THE   RHYTHM   OF   LIFE 

spring  of   the   whole   emotion   was   not    'love,' 
but  Tao." 

But  the  calmness  of  the  old  philosopher  made 
me  feel  impatient,  and  excited  me  to  answer 
roughly  : 

"  It  is  easy  to  theorize  like  this,  but  seeing  that 
you  have  never  experienced  it  yourself,  you 
cannot  really  understand  what  you  are  speaking 
of !  " 

He  looked  at  me  steadily,  and  laid  his  hand 
sympathetically  on  my  shoulder. 

"  It  would  be  cruel,  if  you  spoke  thus  to  any 
one  but  me,  young  man  ! — I  knew  what  it  was  to 
love,  before  you  drew  breath  in  this  world  !  At 
that  time  a  maiden  was  living,  so  wonderful 
to  look  upon  that  she  seemed  like  the  direct- born 
expression  of  Tao.  For  me  she  was  the  world, 
and  the  world  lay  dead  around  her.  I  saw  nothing 
but  her,  and  for  me  there  existed  no  such  things 
as  trees,  or  people,  or  clouds.  She  was  more 
beautiful  than  this  evening  scene,  gentler  than 
the  lines  of  those  distant  mountains,  more  tender 
than  those  hushed  tree-tops  ;  and  the  light  of  her 
presence  was  more  blessed  to  see  than  the  still 
shining  of  yonder  star.  I  will  not  tell  you  her 
story.  It  was  crueller  than  hell — but  it  was  not 


LOVE  69 

real,  and  it  is  over  now,  like  a  storm  that  has 
passed.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  must  die  ;  I 
longed  to  flee  from  my  pain  into  death.  But 
there  came  a  dawning  in  my  soul,  and  all  grew 
light  and  comprehensible.  Nothing  was  lost. 
All  was  yet  as  it  had  been.  The  beauty  which  I 
had  believed  taken  from  me  lived  on  still,  spot- 
less, in  myself.  For  it  was  from  my  own  soul, 
rather  than  from  the  woman,  that  this  beauty 
had  sprung  ;  and  this  I  saw,  shining  yet  with  an 
everlasting  radiance,  all  over  the  world.  Nature 
was  no  other  than  what  I  had  fashioned  to  myself 
out  of  that  shadowy  form  of  a  woman.  And  my 
soul  was  one  with  Nature,  and  floated  with  a  like 
rhythm  towards  the  eternal  Tao." 

His  calmness  calmed  me,  and  I  said :  "  She 
whom  /  loved  is  dead,  Father.  She  who  culled 
my  soul  as  a  child  culls  a  flower  never  became  my 
wife.  But  I  have  a  wife  now,  a  miracle  of 
strength  and  goodness,  essential  to  me  as  light 
and  air.  I  do  not  love  her  as  I  even  now  love 
her  who  died.  But  I  know  that  she  is  a  purer 
human  being  than  that  other.  How  is  it  then 
that  I  do  not  love  her  so  much  ?  She  has  trans- 
formed my  wild  and  troubled  life  into  a  tranquil 
march  towards  death.  She  is  iimple  and  true  as 


70  THE   RHYTHM   OF   LIFE 

Nature  itself,  and  her  face  is  dear  to  me  as  the 
sunlight." 

"  You  love  her,  indeed ! "  said  the  sage, 
"  but  you  know  not  what  love  means,  nor  loving. 
I  will  tell  it  you.  Love  is  no  other  than  the 
rhythm  of  Tao.  I  have  told  you  :  you  are  come 
out  of  Tao,  and  to  Tao  you  will  return.  Whilst 
you  are  young — with  your  soul  still  enveloped  in 
darkness — in  the  shock  of  the  first  impulse  within 
you,  you  do  not  know  yet  whither  you  are 
trending.  You  see  the  woman  before  you.  You 
believe  her  to  be  that  towards  which  the  rhythm 
is  driving  you.  But  even  when  the  woman  is 
yours,  and  you  have  thrilled  at  the  touch  of  her, 
you  feel  the  rhythm  yet  within  you,  unappeased, 
and  know  that  you  must  forward,  ever  further, 
if  you  would  bring  it  to  a  standstill.  Then  it  is 
that  in  the  souls  of  the  man  and  woman  there 
arises  a  great  sadness,  and  they  look  at  one 
another,  questioning  whither  they  are  now  bound. 
Gently  they  clasp  one  another  by  the  hand,  and 
move  on  through  life,  swayed  by  the  same  impulse, 
towards  the  same  goal.  Call  this  love  if  you  will. 
What  is  a  name  ?  I  call  it  Tao.  And  the  souls 
of  those  who  love  are  like  two  white  clouds 
floating  softly  side  by  side,  that  vanish,  wafted 


LOVE  71 

by  the  same  wind,  into  the  infinite  blue  of  the 
heavens." 

"  But  that  is  not  the  love  that  I  mean !  "  I 
cried.  "  Love  is  not  the  desire  to  see  the  loved 
one  absorbed  into  Tao  ;  love  is  the  longing  to  be 
always  with  her  ;  the  deep  yearning  for  the 
blending  of  the  two  souls  in  one  ;  the  hot  desire 
to  soar,  in  one  breath  with  her,  into  felicity ! 
And  this  always  with  the  loved  one  alone — not 
with  others,  not  with  Nature.  And  were  I  ab- 
sorbed into  Tao,  all  this  happiness  would  be  for 
ever  lost !  Oh  let  me  stay  here,  in  this  goodly 
world,  with  my  faithful  companion !  Here  it  is 
so  bright  and  homely,  and  Tao  is  still  so  gloomy 
and  inscrutable  for  me." 

"  The  bodily  desire  dies  out,"  he  answered 
calmly.  "  The  body  of  your  loved  one  will 
wither  and  pass  away  within  the  cold  earth. 
The  leaves  of  the  trees  fade  in  autumn,  and  the 
withered  flowers  droop  sadly  to  the  ground. 
How  can  you  love  that  so  much  which  does  not 
last  ?  However,  you  know,  in  truth,  as  yet, 
neither  how  you  love  nor  what  it  is  that  you  love. 
The  beauty  of  woman  is  but  a  vague  reflection  of 
the  formless  beauty  of  Tao.  The  emotion  it 
awakens,  the  longing  to  lose  yourself  in  her 


72  THE   RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

beauty,  that  ecstasy  of  feeling  which  would  lend 
wings  for  the  flight  of  your  soul  with  the  beloved — 
beyond  horizon-bounds,  into  regions  of  bliss — be- 
lieve me,  it  is  no  other  than  the  rhythm  of  Tao  ; 
only  you  know  it  not.  You  are  still  like  the  river 
which  only  knows,  as  yet,  its  shimmering  banks, 
and  has  no  knowledge  of  the  power  that  draws  it 
forward  ;  but  which  will  one  day  inevitably  flow 
out  into  the  great  ocean.  Why  this  striving 
after  happiness,  after  human  happiness,  that  lasts 
but  a  moment  and  then  vanishes  again  ?  Chuang- 
Tse  said  truly  :  '  The  highest  happiness  is  no 
happiness.'  Is  it  not  small  and  pitiable,  this 
momentary  uprising,  and  downfalling,  and  up- 
rising again  ?  this  wavering,  weakly  intention 
and  progress  of  men  ?  Do  not  seek  happiness  in 
a  woman.  She  is  the  joyful  revelation  of  Tao 
directed  towards  you.  She  is  the  purest  form 
in  the  whole  of  Nature  by  which  Tao  is  mani- 
fested. She  is  the  gentle  force  that  awakens  the 
rhythm  of  Tao  within  you.  But  she  is  only  a 
poor  creature  like  yourself.  And  you  are  for  her 
the  same  joyful  revelation  that  she  is  to  you. 
Do  not  fancy  that  that  which  you  perceive  in 
her  is  the  Tao,  that  very  holiest,  into  which  you 
would  one  day  ascend  !  For  then  you  would 


LOVE  73 

surely  reject  her  when  you  realized  what  she  was. 
If  you  will  truly  love  a  woman,  then  love  her  as 
being  of  the  same  poor  nature  as  yourself,  and 
do  not  seek  happiness  with  her.  Whether  in 
your  love  you  see  this  or  not — her  inmost  being 
is  Tao.  A  poet  looks  upon  a  woman,  and,  swayed 
by  the  '  rhythm,'  he  perceives  the  beauty  of  the 
beloved  in  all  things — in  the  trees,  the  mountains, 
and  the  horizon  ;  for  the  beauty  of  a  woman  is 
the  same  as  that  of  Nature.  It  is  the  form  of 
Tao,  the  great  and  formless,  and  what  your  soul 
desires  in  the  excitement  of  beholding — this 
strange,  unspeakable  feeling — is  nothing  but 
your  oneness  with  this  beauty,  and  with  the  source 
of  this  beauty — Tao.  And  the  like  is  felt  by 
your  wife.  Ye  are  for  each  other  angels,  who 
lead  one  another  to  Tao  unconsciously." 

I  was  silent  for  a  while,  reflecting.  In  the 
soft  colouring  and  stillness  of  the  evening  lay  a 
great  sadness.  Above  the  horizon,  where  the 
sun  had  set,  there  glimmered  a  streak  of  faint 
red  light,  like  dying  pain . 

"  What  is  this  sadness,  then,  everywhere  in 
Nature  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Is  there  not  in  the  twi- 
light a  feeling  as  though  the  whole  earth  were 
weeping  with  a  grievous  longing  ?  See  how  she 


74  THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

mourns,  with  these  fading  hues,  these  drooping 
tree-tops,  and  solemn  mountains.  All  human 
eyes  must  fill  with  tears,  when  this  great 
grief  of  Nature  looms  within  their  sight.  It 
is  as  though  she  were  longing  for  her  beloved 
— as  though  everything — seas,  mountains,  and 
heavens — were  full  of  mourning." 

And  the  sage  replied  :  "  It  is  the  same  pain 
which  cries  in  the  hearts  of  men.  Your  own 
longing  quivers  in  Nature  too.  The  '  Heimweh  ' 
of  the  evening  is  also  the  '  Heimweh  '  of  your  soul. 
Your  soul  has  lost  her  love  :  Tao,  with  whom 
she  once  was  one ;  and  your  soul  longs  for 
reunion  with  her  love.  Absolute  reunion  with 
Tao — is  not  that  an  immense  love? — to  be  so 
absolutely  one  with  the  beloved  that  you  are 
wholly  hers,  she  wholly  yours  ;  and  that  neither 
death  nor  life  can  ever  cleave  your  oneness 
again  !  to  be  so  tranquil  and  pure  that  desire 
can  no  more  awaken  in  you — perfect  blessedness 
being  attained,  and  a  holy  and  permanent 
peace ! 

"  For  Tao  is  one  single,  eternal,  pure  infinitude 
of  soul. 

"  Is  that  not  more  perfect  than  the  love  of  a 
woman  ? — this  poor,  sad  love,  each  day  of  which 


LOVE  75 

reveals  to  you  some  sullying  of  the  clear  life  of 
the  soul  by  dark  and  sanguine  passion  ?  Only 
when  you  are  absorbed  into  Tao  will  you  be  com- 
pletely, eternally  united  with  the  soul  of  your 
beloved,  with  the  souls  of  all  men,  your  brothers, 
and  with  the  soul  of  Nature.  The  few  moments 
of  blessedness  fleetingly  enjoyed  by  all  lovers  on 
earth  are  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  that  end- 
less bliss  :  the  blending  of  the  souls  of  all  who 
love  in  an  eternity  of  perfect  purity." 

An  horizon  of  blessedness  opened  out  before 
my  soul,  wider  than  the  vague  horizon  of  the 
sea,  wider  than  the  heavens. 

"  Father  !  "  I  cried  in  ecstasy,  "  can  it  be 
that  everything  is  so  holy,  and  I  have  never  known 
it  ?  I  have  been  so  filled  with  longing,  and  so 
worn  out  with  weeping  ;  and  my  breast  has  been 
heavy  with  sobs  and  dread.  I  have  been  so  con- 
sumed with  fear  !  I  have  trembledat  the  thought 
of  death  !  I  have  despaired  of  all  being  right, 
when  I  saw  so  much  suffering  around  me.  I  have 
believed  myself  damned  by  reason  of  the  wild 
passions  and  bodily  desires  that  burnt  within  me 
and  would  burst  out — passions  which,  though  I 
hated  them,  I  still  was  coward  enough  to  serve. 
With  what  breathless  horror  I  have  realized  how 


76  THE   RHYTHM   OF   LIFE 

the  tender,  flower- like  body  of  my  love  must 
have  mouldered  and  crumbled  away  in  the  cold, 
dark  earth  !  I  have  believed  that  I  should  never 
feel  again  that  blessed  peace  at  the  look  in  her 
eyes,  through  which  her  soul  was  shining.  And 
was  it  Tao  ? — was  Tao  really  even  then  always 
within  me,  like  a  faithful  guardian  ?  and  was  it 
Tao  that  shone  from  her  eyes  ?  Was  Tao  in 
everything  that  surrounded  me  ? — in  the  clouds, 
the  trees,  and  the  sea  ?  Is  the  inmost  being  of 
earth  and  heaven,  then,  also  the  inmost  being  of 
my  beloved  and  my  own  soul  ?  Is  it  that  for 
which  there  burns  within  me  that  mysterious 
longing  which  I  did  not  understand,  and  which 
drove  me  so  restlessly  onward  ?  I  thought  it 
was  leading  me  away  from  the  beloved,  and  that 
I  was  ceasing  to  love  her ! — Was  it  really  the 
rhythm  of  Tao,  then,  that  moved  my  beloved 
too  ? — the  same  as  that  in  which  all  Nature 
breathes,  and  all  suns  and  planets  take  their 
shining  course  throughout  eternity  ? — Then  all 
is  indeed  made  holy ! — then  Tao  is  indeed  in 
everything,  as  my  soul  is  in  Tao  !  Oh,  Father, 
Father  !  it  is  growing  so  light  in  my  heart !  My 
soul  seems  to  foresee  all  that  will  come  one  day  ; 
and  the  heavens  above  us,  and  the  great  sea,  they 


LOVE  77 

foretell  it  too  !  See,  how  reverently  the  trees 
around  us  are  standing — and  see  the  lines  of  the 
mountains,  how  soft  they  are  in  their  holy 
repose !  All  Nature  is  filled  with  sacred  awe, 
and  my  soul  too  thrills  with  ecstasy,  for  she  has 
looked  upon  her  beloved  !  " 

I  sat  there  long,  in  silent,  still  forgetfulness. 
It  was  to  me  as  though  I  were  one  with  the  soul 
of  my  master  and  with  Nature.  I  saw  nothing 
and  heard  nothing  ; — void  of  all  desire,  bereft 
of  all  will,  I  lay  sunk  in  the  deepest  peace.  I  was 
awakened  by  a  soft  sound  close  by  me.  A  fruit 
had  fallen  from  the  tree  to  the  ground  behind  us. 
When  I  looked  up,  it  was  into  shimmering  moon- 
light. The  recluse  was  standing  by  me,  and  bent 
over  me  kindly. 

"  You  have  overstrained  your  spirit,  my  young 
friend  !  "  he  said  concernedly.  "  It  is  too  much 
for  you  in  so  short  a  time.  You  have  fallen 
asleep  from  exhaustion.  The  sea  sleeps  too. 
See,  not  a  furrow  breaks  its  even  surface ; 
calmly  dreaming,  it  receives  the  benediction  of 
the  light.  But  you  must  wake  !  It  is  late,  your 
boat  is  ready,  and  your  wife  awaits  you  at  home 
in  the  town." 

I  answered,  still  half  dreaming  :  "  I  would  so 


78  THE   RHYTHM  OF  LIFE 

gladly  stay  here  !  Let  me  return,  with  my  wife, 
and  stay  here  for  ever  !  I  cannot  go  back  to  the 
people  again  !  Ah,  Father,  I  shudder — I  can 
see  their  scoffing  faces,  their  insulting  glances, 
their  disbelief,  and  their  irreverence  !  How  can 
I  keep  this  wonderful,  light  and  tender  feeling 
in  the  midst  of  that  ungracious  people  ?  How 
can  I  ever  so  hide  it  under  smile  or  speech  that 
they  shall  never  detect  it,  nor  desecrate  it  with 
their  scornful  taunts  ?  " 

Then,  laying  his  hand  earnestly  upon  my 
shoulder,  he  said : 

"  Listen  carefully  to  what  I  say  now,  my  friend, 
and,  above  all,  believe  me.  I  shall  give  you  pain, 
but  I  cannot  help  it.  You  must  return  to  the 
world  and  your  fellow-men  ;  it  cannot  be  other- 
wise. You  have  spoken  too  much  with  me 
already  ;  perhaps  I  have  said  somewhat  too  much 
to  you.  Your  further  growth  must  be  your  own 
doing,  and  you  must  find  out  everything  for 
yourself.  Be  only  simple  of  heart,  and  you  will 
discover  everything  without  effort,  like  a  child 
finding  flowers.  At  this  moment  you  feel  deeply 
and  purely  what  I  have  said  to  you.  This  present 
mood  is  one  of  the  highest  moments  of  your  life. 
But  you  cannot  yet  be  strong  enough  to  main- 


LOVE  79 

tain  it.  You  will  relapse,  and  spiritual  feeling 
will  turn  again  to  words  and  theories.  Only  by 
slow  degrees  will  you  grow  once  more  to  feel  it 
purely  and  keep  it  permanently.  When  that  is 
so,  then  you  may  return  hither  in  peace,  and  then 
you  will  do  well  to  remain  here  ; — but  by  that 
time  I  shall  be  long  dead. 

"  You  must  complete  your  growth  in  the  midst 
of  life,  not  outside  it ;  for  you  are  not  yet  pure 
enough  to  rise  above  it.  A  moment  ago,  it  is  true, 
you  were  equal  even  to  that,  but  the  reaction  will 
soon  set  in.  You  must  not  shun  the  rest  of  man- 
kind ;  they  are  your  equals,  even  though  they 
may  not  feel  so  purely  as  you  do.  You  can  go 
amongst  them  as  their  comrade,  and  take  them  by 
the  hand  ;  only  do  not  let  them  look  upon  your 
soul,  so  long  as  they  are  still  so  far  behind  you. 
They  would  not  mock  you  from  wickedness, 
but  rather  out  of  religious  persuasion,  being 
unaware  how  utterly  miserable,  how  godless, 
how  forsaken  they  are,  and  how  far  from  all  those 
holy  things  by  which  you  actually  live.  You 
must  be  so  strong  in  your  conviction  that  nothing 
can  hinder  you.  And  that  you  will  only  become 
after  a  long  and  bitter  struggle.  But  out  of  your 
tears  will  grow  your  strength,  and  through  pain 


80 

you  will  attain  peace.  Above  all,  remember  that 
Tao,  Poetry  and  Love  are  One  and  the  Same, 
although  you  may  seek  to  define  It  by  these 
several  vague  terms ;  that  It  is  always  within 
you  and  around  you  ;  that  It  never  forsakes 
you  ;  and  that  you  are  safe  and  well  cared  for  in 
this  holy  environment.  You  are  surrounded 
with  benefits,  and  sheltered  by  a  love  which  is 
eternal.  Everything  is  made  holy  through  the 
primal  force  of  Tao  dwelling  within  it." 

He  spoke  so  gently  and  convincingly  that  I 
had  no  answer  to  give.  Willingly  I  allowed 
myself  to  be  guided  by  him  to  the  shore.  My 
boat  lay  motionless  upon  the  smooth  water, 
awaiting  me. 

"  Farewell,  my  young  friend  !  Farewell !  " 
he  said,  calmly  and  tenderly.  "  Remember  all 
that  I  have  told  you  !  " 

But  I  could  not  leave  him  in  such  a  manner. 
Suddenly  I  thought  of  the  loneliness  of  his  life 
in  this  place,  and  tears  of  sympathy  rose  to  my 
eyes.  I  grasped  his  hand. 

"  Father,  come  with  me  !  "  I  besought  him. 
"  My  wife  and  I  will  care  for  you  ;  we  will  do 
everything  for  you  ;  and  when  you  are  sick  we 
will  tend  you.  Do  not  stay  here  in  this  loneli- 


LOVE  81 

ness,  so  devoid  of  all  the  love  that  might  make 
life  sweet  to  you  !  " 

He  smiled  gently,  and  shook  his  head  as  a 
father  might  at  some  fancy  of  his  child's,  answer- 
ing with  tranquil  kindness  : 

"  You  have  lapsed  already  !  Do  you  realize 
now  how  necessary  it  is  for  you  to  remain  in  the 
midst  of  the  everyday  life  ?  I  have  but  this 
moment  told  you  how  great  is  the  love  which 
surrounds  me — and  still  you  deem  me  lonely 
here  and  forsaken  ?  Here,  in  Tao,  I  am  as  safe 
at  home  as  a  child  is  with  its  mother.  You  mean 
it  well,  my  friend,  but  you  must  grow  wiser, 
much  wiser  !  Be  not  concerned  for  me  ;  that 
is  unnecessary,  grateful  though  I  am  to  you  for 
this  feeling.  Think  of  yourself  just  now.  And 
do  what  I  say.  Believe  that  I  tell  you  what  is 
best  for  you.  In  the  boat  lies  something  to 
remind  you  of  the  days  you  have  spent  here. 
Farewell !  " 

I  bent  silently  over  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 
I  thought  I  felt  that  it  trembled  with  emotion ; 
but  when  I  looked  at  him  again  his  face  was  calm 
and  cheerful  as  the  moon  in  the  sky. 

I  stepped  into  the  boat,  and  the  boatman  took 
up  the  oars.  With  dexterous  strokes  he  drove  it 
6 


82  THE   RHYTHM   OF   LIFE 

over  the  calm  surface  of  the  water.  I  was  already 
some  way  from  the  land  when  my  foot  struck 
against  an  object  in  the  boat,  and  I  remembered 
that  something  for  me  was  lying  there.  I  took 
it  up.  It  was  a  small  chest.  Hastily  I  lifted 
the  lid.  And  in  the  soft,  calm  moonlight  there 
gleamed  with  mystical  radiance  the  wonderful 
porcelain  of  the  Kwan-Yin  image,  the  same  which 
the  old  man  had  cherished  so  carefully,  and  loved 
so  well. 

There,  in  the  lofty  tranquillity  of  severe  yet 
gentle  lines,  in  all  the  ethereal  delicacy  of  the 
transparent  porcelain,  reposed  the  pure  figure  of 
Kwan-Yin,  shining  as  if  with  spiritual  radiance 
amidst  the  shimmering  petals  of  the  lotus. 

I  scarcely  dared  believe  that  this  holy  thing  had 
been  given  to  me.  I  seized  my  handkerchief, 
and  waved  with  it  towards  the  shore,  to  convey 
my  thanks  to  the  recluse.  He  stood  there 
motionless,  gazing  straight  before  him.  I  waited 
longingly  for  him  to  wave — for  one  more  greeting 
from  him — one  more  sign  of  love — but  he 
remained  immovable. 

Was  it  I  after  whom  he  was  gazing  ?  Was  he 
gazing  at  the  sea  ?  .  .  . 

I  closed  the  lid  of  the  chest,  and  held  it  closely 


LOVE  83 

to  me,  as  though  it  had  been  a  love  of  his  which  I 
was  bearing  away.  I  knew  now  that  he  cared  for 
me  ;  but  his  imperturbable  calm  was  too  great 
for  me — it  saddened  my  mood  that  he  had  never 
signed  to  me  again. 

We  drew  further  and  further  away  ;  the  out- 
lines of  his  figure  grew  fainter  and  fainter  ;  at 
last  I  could  see  it  no  more. 

He  remained ;  with  the  dreams  of  his  soul,  in  the 
midst  of  Nature ;  alone  in  infinity,  bereft  of  all 
human  love — but  close  to  the  great  bosom  of  Tao. 

I  took  my  way  back  to  the  life  amongst  man- 
kind, my  brothers  and  equals,  in  all  the  souls  of 
whom  dwells  Tao,  primordial  and  eternal. 

The  ornamental  lights  of  the  harbour  gleamed 
already  in  the  distance,  and  the  drone  of  the  great 
town  sounded  nearer  and  nearer  to  us  over  the 
sea. 

Then  I  felt  a  great  strength  in  me,  and  I  ordered 
the  boatman  to  row  still  more  quickly.  I  was 
ready.  Was  I  not  as  safe  and  well  cared  for  in 
the  great  town  as  in  the  still  country  ?  in  the 
street  as  on  the  sea  ? 

In  Everything  dwells  Poetry — Love — Tao.  And 
the  whole  World  is  a  Great  Sanctuary,  cherished 
and  safe-guarded  like  a  strong,  well-ordered  House. 


NOTES 

1.  p.  18.  This  is  a  fact.     Chinese  priests  are  in  the 
habit  of  repeating  Sutras  which,  to  judge  by  the  sound, 
have  been  translated  from  the  Sanscrit  into  Chinese 
phrases  of  which  they  do  not  understand  one  word. 

2.  p.  21.    The  "  Yellow  Emperor  "  is  a  legendary 
emperor,  who  appears  to  have  reigned  about  the  year 
2697  B.C. 

3.  p.  21.    That  which  follows  in  inverted  commas  is 
an  extract  translated  from  the  twelfth  chapter  of  the 
"  Nan  Hwa  King." 

4.  p.  22.    The  following  passage,  as  far  as  the  sen- 
tence "  and  the  Millions  return  again  into  One  "  is 
an  adaptation — not  a  translation — of  the  first  section 
of  "  Tao-Teh-King."     Lao-Tse's  wonderfully  simple 
writing  cannot  possibly  be  translated  into  equally 
simple  passages  in  our  language.     This  rendering  of 
mine — arrived  at  partly  by  aid  of  Chinese  commen- 
tators— is  an  entirely  new  reading,  and  is,  to  the  best 
of  my  knowledge,  the  true  one.     One  of  the  most 
celebrated,  and,  in  a  certain  sense,  one  of  the  most 
competent  of  the  sinologues,  Herbert  Giles,  translates 
of  this  first  section  only  the  first  sentence,  and  finds 

84 


NOTES  85 

the  rest  not  worth  the  trouble  of  translating ! 
(Compare  "  The  Remains  of  Lao  Tzii,"  by  H.  A. 
Giles,  Hongkong,  China  Mail  Office,  1886.)  This 
same  scholar  translates  "  Tao "  as  "  the  Way," 
not  perceiving  how  impossible  it  is  that  which  Lao-Tse 
meant — the  Highest  of  all,  the  Infinite — should  be  a 
"  way,"  seeing  that  a  way  (in  the  figurative  sense) 
always  leads  to  something  else,  and  therefore  cannot 
be  the  Highest.  Another  still  more  celebrated 
sinologue,  Dr.  Legge,  translates  "  Tao  "  as  "  Course/' 
and  out  of  the  simple  sentence  :  "  If  Tao  could  be 
expressed  in  words  it  would  not  be  the  eternal  Tao  " 
he  makes  :  "  The  Course  that  can  be  trodden  is  not 
the  enduring  and  unchanging  course."  The  whole 
secret  is  this  :  that  the  sign  or  word  "  Tao  "  has  a 
great  number  of  meanings,  and  that  in  Confucius 's 
work  "  Chung  Yung"  it  does  as  a  matter  of  fact 
mean  "  Way  "  ;  but  in  a  hundred  other  instances 
it  means  :  "  speech,  expression,  a  saying."  Lao-Tse 
having,  in  one  sentence,  used  this  sign  in  two  differ- 
ent senses,  nearly  all  translators  have  suffered  them- 
selves to  be  misled.  The  sentence  is  as  simple  as 
possible,  and  in  two  of  my  Chinese  editions  the  com- 
mentators put :  "  spoken,"  and  :  "  by  word  of 
mouth."  But  of  all  the  sinologues  only  Wells 
Williams  has  translated  this  sentence  well,  namely 
thus  :  "  The  Tao  which  can  be  expressed  is  not  the 
eternal  Tao."  Although  the  construction  of  the  phrase 


86  NOTES 

is  not  accurately  rendered,  at  any  rate  Williams  has 
grasped  the  meaning. 

After  my  work  had  already  appeared  in  the 
periodical  De  Gids,  I  saw  for  the  first  time  Professor 
de  Groot's  work  "  Jaarlijksche  feesten  en  gebruiken 
der  Emoy  Chineezen,"  from  which  I  gathered  that  he 
agreed  with  me  in  so  far  as  to  say  also  that  "  Tao  " 
was  untranslatable — a  sub-lying  conception  "  for 
which  the  Chinese  philosopher  himself  could  find  no 
name,  and  which  he  consequently  stamped  with  the 
word  "  Tao."  Professor  de  Groot  adds  :  "  If  one 
translates  this  word  by  '  the  universal  soul  of  Nature,' 
'  the  all-pervading  energy  of  Nature,'  or  merely  by 
the  word  '  Nature  '  itself,  one  will  surely  not  be  far 
from  the  philosopher's  meaning." 

Although  the  term  holds  for  me  something  still 
higher,  yet  I  find  Professor  de  Groot's  conception 
of  it  the  most  sympathetic  of  all  those  known  to  me. 

5.  p.  26.  This  "  Wu-Wei  " — untranslatable  as  it 
is  in  fact — has  been  rendered  by  these  sinologues  as 
'•'inaction" — as  though  it  signified  idleness,  inertia. 
It  most  certainly  does  not  signify  idleness,  however, 
but  rather  action,  activity — that  is  to  say  :  "  inac- 
tivity of  the  perverted,  unnatural  passions  and 
desires,"  but  "  activity  in  the  sense  of  natural  move- 
ment proceeding  from  Tao."  Thus,  in  the  "  Nan 
Hwa  King  "  we  find  the  following  :  "  The  heavens 
and  the  earth  do  nothing  "  (in  the  evil  sense)  "  and  " 


NOTES  87 

(yet)  "  there  is  nothing  which  they  do  not  do."  The 
whole  of  nature  consists  in  "  Wu-Wei,"  in  natural ; 
from-Tao-emanating  movement.  By  translating 
Wu-Wei  into  "  inaction  "  the  sinologues  have  arrived 
at  the  exact  opposite  of  the  meaning  of  the  Chinese 
text. 

Lao-Tse  himself  does  not  dilate  further  upon  the 
subject.  What  follows  here  is  my  own  conception 
of  the  sense  of  the  text.  The  whole  first  chapter  of 
the  original  occupies  only  one  page  in  the  book,  and 
contains  only  fifty-nine  characters.  It  testifies  to 
Lao-Tse 's  wonderful  subtlety  and  terseness  of  lan- 
guage that  he  was  able  in  so  few  words  to  say  so  much. 

6.  p.    27.     This  sentence  is  translated  from  the 
"  Tao-Teh-King  "  (chapter  2). 

7.  p.    27.    From  the  56th  chapter.     This  sentence 
is  also  to  be  found  in  the  15th  chapter  of  the  "  Nan 
Hwa  King." 

8.  p.  34.  This  runs  somewhat  as  follows  in  the  6th 
chapter  of  the  Nan  Hwa  King  :  "  The  true  men  of 
the  early  ages  slept  dreamlessly,  and  were  conscious  of 
self  without  care." 

9.  p.    36.    This  episode  is  translated  from  the  18th 
section  of  the  "  Nan  Hwa  King."     By  the  "  Great 
House  "  Chuang-Tse  meant,  of  course,  the  universe, 
and  this  expression  "  house  "  lends  to  the  passage  a 
touch  of  familiar  intimacy,  showing  Chuang-Tse  to 
have  the  feeling  that  the  dead  one  was  well  cared  for 


88  NOTES 

as  though  within  the  shelter  of  a  house.  H.  Giles, 
who  renders  it  "  Eternity,"  which  does  not  appear  at 
all  in  the  Chinese  text,  loses  by  his  translation  the 
confiding  element  which  makes  Chuang-Tse's  speech 
so  touching.  (Compare  "  Chuang  Tsy,"  by  H.  Giles, 
London,  Bernard  Quaritch,  1889.)  The  actual 
words  are  :  "  Ku  Shih  "  =  Great  House. 

10.  p.  38  .  In  almost  all  the  temples  is  a  chamber  in 
which   the    Mandarins   lodge,    and    where    Western 
travellers    may    usually   stay   for    the    night,    and 
probably  for  longer  periods. 

11.  p.  43.     The  following,  to  the  end  of  the  sen- 
tence, "  Poetry  then,  is  the  sound  of  the  heart,"  has 
been  translated  by  me  from  a  preface  by  Wang  Yao  Ki 
to  his  edition  of  the  Poetry  of  the  Tang  Dynasty. 
Wang  Yao  Ki  lived  in  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century. 

12.  p.    54.     The  Chinese  do  really  preserve  their 
treasures  in  this  careful  manner.     It  is  usual  for  an 
antique  figure  of  Buddha  to  lie  in  a  silk-lined  shrine , 
the  shrine  in  a  wooden  chest,  and  the  chest  in  a  cloth. 
It  is  unpacked  upon  great  occasions. 

13.  p.    54.    Such  a  figure  as  the  above-described  is 
not  a  mere  figment  of  the  author's  imagination — such 
figures  really  exist.    A  similar  one  is  in  the  possession 
of  the  author. 

14.  p.  55.     The  Soul-Pearl  "  Oerna,"  a  spiritual 
eye. 


NOTES  89 

15.  p.  57.  The  figure  in  the  author's  possession 
is  by  Ch'en  Wei.  Another  great  artist  was  Ho  Chao 
Tsung,  of  certain  figures  by  whom  I  have  also,  with 
very  great  trouble,  become  possessed.  These  names 
are  well  known  to  every  artist,  but  I  have  endea- 
voured in  vain  to  discover  anything  nearer  with 
regard  to  them.  They  became  famous  after  death  ; 
but  they  had  lived  in  such  simplicity  and  oblivion, 
that  now  not  even  their  birthplace  is  remembered. 
I  have  heard  conjectures,  but  cannot  obtain  any 
definite  information. 


Printed  fry  tiazeli,  Walton  de    Viney,  Ld.,  London  and  Aylesbury,  England. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


APR  19 1989 


m  the; 

ote  of! 


1/881 
.25 


A     000  1 78  064    2 


